


How to Heal 40 Years of Hurt in 9 Months or Less

by BiGSiS64



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Brotherly Bonding, Brotherly Love, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ford has guilt, Gen, Graphic Description, Hurt/Comfort, I dunno why I like to torture two old men, Like all the miscommunication, Miscommunication, Mistaken Beliefs, Murder, Other, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Ford Pines, Sea Grunkles, Secrets, Stan has self esteem issues, Stan is smart, These boys need to sort out their feelings, They get better, Violence, for real, i'll add tags as i go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-07-27 03:07:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 36,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16210109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BiGSiS64/pseuds/BiGSiS64
Summary: Stan and Ford are reunited after the world ends, but the two soon find that rekindling their bond is easier said than done. The two of them have had to do some things they regret to survive, and are bad at communication. However, they discover that the problems in their way aren't as big as they believe.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work is dedicated to a very special group of friends. Thank you for pushing me to do what I really love.
> 
> And thank you to Alex Hirsch for making such a memorable and creative show. It came to me in a dark time and I really love the stories you wove.

     The water is calm as the sun rises over the Pacific, light catching the crest of waves in brilliant flashes of light. The sight reminds him of how the alien suns he’d seen catching the light of other worlds as it would crest over unfamiliar planets, signaling his time to rest was over. There was no time to rest, truly. Not there. Not on the other side. But there was not here, and here he had work to do.

     The waters being calm was favorable, he concluded.

     Ford takes another sip from the mug beside him before returning to the task of plotting the course they’d need to take to reach port. Maps and charts were spread out all akimbo across the small table of their kitchenette, logbook open to one side of him. Occasionally he’d check the compass, reference one of the maps and jot down the notes on the page before him before starting the minute process over. Easy. Robotic. Repetitive.  
After making port in the small town of Coyuca de Benitez, Mexico, they would make tracks down the coast line of Central America to reach the Panama Canal and use it to bridge the gap between Pacific and Atlantic to continue their voyage. Ford sighs into his mug before taking another sip of his coffee. A detour he was not expecting to take, for certain, but it couldn’t be helped. They had discussed at the very beginning on whether or not to set sail directly from Oregon. Ford had suggested shipping the Stan O War II across the country and launching it from a port closer to their destination, but Stanley had told him that that wouldn’t be possible if they wanted to leave soon.

     Ford had immediately asked him why, and the outcome hadn’t truly surprised him, but it had shocked him to say the least.

      _“Let’s just say that Oregon is part o’ the one fifth of the States that I’m actually allowed in anymore.”_

_“How did you even manage to get banned from forty states, Stanley?!”_

_“Eh, long an’ short of it is this; people don’t exactly appreciate the whole ‘Travelling Business Man’ schtick anymore.”_  


_“I am fairly certain that it takes more than a few unhappy customers to get someone banned from a state….Wait, how many of these incidents were perpetrated under MY name?”_

_“None. This was all durin’ the time from when Pops threw me out ta when you called me up to Gravity Falls.”_

_“…”_

_“What?”_

_“How in the HELL did you manage to get banned from forty states in TEN YEARS?!”_

_“Hah! Think THAT’S impressive? Wait til ya hear how long it took me to get banned from any and all airlines! Now THAT was a record breaker!”_

Ford sighed in exasperation. Leave it to someone as determined as his twin to get banned from nearly every state. Sailing the entire coastline of North America it was.

     It wasn’t all bad, Ford relented, as it certainly DID give him a chance to see just how much the world had changed in his absence. Ford was surprised to see that things had come a long way since the eighties, almost to the point that he felt like he was in another alien dimension. The places were the same, but the world had evolved. Technology too, for that matter. Ford was still hesitant to touch the…what was it…'cellphone?’ that currently sat in a drawer in the desk in their sleeping quarters. When his niece and nephew had explained it to him he was fascinated, to be sure, but he was sure he could get it to work at at least twice the efficiency.

      _'But that’s not the only reason you’re out here, is it?’_ He asked himself.

     No. No it certainly wasn't.

      _“I don’t just want ANYONE to come with me, Stanley. I want it to be you.”_

The memory of those words echoed in Fords mind and his hand froze midway between his writings. He had meant those words. He still did. He’d missed too much time with his brother already.

     A decade had been spent separated from his brother over what was, in hindsight, a petty argument. An accident. And when his brother had shown up at his door thirty years ago, another accident had cost them both much more. And it took a bloody apocalyptic catastrophe for him to really see that. He’d forgiven his brother for certain after that, but he was smart enough to recognize that the both of them had changed immensely. As a result of their own separate hardships, their already tumultuous relationship had undergone even more unnecessary strain. But Ford was not ready to admit defeat. After all, his brother had agreed to come with him on what was now their voyage. That meant there HAD to be a sliver of hope that they could make right out of so much wrong. In an ideal scenario, the impossible could be accomplished. But for all his knowledge abd for the life of him, Ford had found another problem in his best-laid plan.

     He had no idea on where to even begin….or rather, the beginning was so terrible that he couldn’t bring himself to get his foot in the door.

     A snap brought him back to the present, and Ford had found that his hand holding the pen had turned to a white knuckled grip. The pressure he was using to hold it against the page had caused the tip to snap off, and now deep blue ink was pooling on the page in a dark navy-black puddle. Ford let out a small curse as he withdrew the ruined pen and quickly gathered up the fragments before it could bleed all over the page, snagging up a tissue from the corner of the table to blot away the excess ink. Once he was done salvaging the remainder of his writings, Ford wrapped the pen in extra tissue and leaned back into the seat of the wraparound booth, sighing as he grabbed ahold of his mug to take another drink, but spit it back out once he’d found the coffee had gone cold.  
Ford sighed and rose from his seat at the small table, making his way into the kitchen proper and dumping his cold coffee in the sink. Afterwards, he’d relented that he should set to making a fresh pot. A mindless process by now; measure, change out the filter, add the water, flip the switch. As the machine chugs to life, he finds his mind set to wandering again…

      _“Will you give me a second chance?”_

     Second chances… A concept that Ford hadn’t truly believed in before returning home and the Apocalypse came and went. On the other side of the portal, he’d made many an enemy when he’d resigned himself to his mission. Some of them presented themselves as allies, others were followers of Bill, and even still, others seemed to be adrift like himself. During his wandering, Ford had learned from experience that if he was to survive, he’d have to come to accept the golden rule; trust no one. To accept that self preservation as more important than all else. The transition had been painstaking for him, being a man with a tender heart. There were so many dimensions he’d come across where suffering was the norm, and it broke him to pieces when he realized that he couldn’t spare sympathies for them. They were hurting, but he had to learn to close his heart to their plight in favor of living another day.

     In time, the suffering of others became a normal thing to expect. In time, he’d whittled his reactions regarding it to that of base recognition. He saw it the same as those who would see a house plant or some other minute decoration; as just something that was there. In time, he’d learned how to lock away his emotions that did not guarantee his survival and how to suppress the guilt that followed. He had made himself ruthless and unforgiving. Those who dared cross him… Well, as the old saying goes; fool him once. He made sure they’d never had a second chance.

     But Stanley…Stanley had accepted his offer with no questions asked. His trust was boundless, and he’d agreed to travel with his brother as though it was something that he’d only had the chance to dream of. As though finally the two of them would have the chance to make up for time lost to them. They could have a chance to make right.

     But now, the idea had only made Ford’s blood run cold. Even though his brother had not questioned him then, he was smart enough to know that eventually there WOULD be questions. Questions he was not prepared to answer…or rather, he was not ready for the outcome when the answers finally came. Ford had become monstrous in his quest to stay alive. A criminal that went beyond theft. Beyond anything pardonable, without a doubt. So when the time came, and the truth was laid bare, could Stanley forgive him for having to do what he’d done to get by? Could he truly accept him as his brother after finding out just what survival meant at times? Could he still want to be family after learning the truth?  
The questions swirling in his head only reinforced the tightness in his gut. Ford was not ready for the rejection that was sure to come.

     The chime of the coffee machine cut through the maelstrom of thoughts tearing at his mind, causing Ford to clutch his chest in shock as his other hand snaked down to the holster on his hip, flicking the strap away from its place to grab the grip of his gun.

    _'Calm yourself_!’ he demanded his body, ' _For Moses’ sake, you need to regroup._ ’

     Ford took a long, slow breath inwards and held it for a short time before allowing his lungs to deflate. Another repetitive process he was accustomed to. In time, Ford found his breath returning to a normal slowed pace. As the sound of blood rushing in his ears began to quiet, he came back to the world around him. 'The coffee machine,’ he reminded himself, 'It was only the coffee machine.’

     Ford froze as he registered a new sound. A familiar chuckling coming from the direction of the narrow hallway to his left. Ford turned his head to find Stanley in the doorway, already dressed in his standard jeans, black boots, white teeshirt and the red beanie Mabel had knotted him as a farewell present. A smile split his brothers face as Ford scrambled to make himself look less manic.

     “Jeez, Poindexter,” his brother chided in mock horror, “It was just doin’ its job. What’d the poor old coffee maker ever do ta you?”

     The familiar joking tone in his brothers voice caused the tenseness in his muscles to fade, the feeling of a coiled spring wound too tight relaxing right out of him. Stanley’s presence was always soothing to him now, it seemed.

     “Good morning to you as well, Stanley.” Ford deadpanned, a smirk quirking up one side of his mouth, “You’re up earlier than usual. Usually you don’t wander out of bed until it’s past noon. What’s the occasion?”

     Stan punched his brother lightly on the forearm for the teasing before sneaking past him to snag his mug from one of the cupboards above the stove, “Oh ha hah,” he barked back, “Look, just because you’ve made a habit of waking up at the crack a’ dawn, it doesn’t mean I’m gonna follow suit.” Stanley grouses before reaching up to grab a box of sugar cubes from the pantry. “Besides, I’m old. I’ve earned the right ta sleep late if it so floats my boat.”

     Ford shakes his head with an amused sigh as he grabs the coffee pot from Stanley’s extended hand, refilling his mug before heading back to the table. “If you keep whining about being old, then maybe you should cut back on the sugar,” he chides, “It’s meant to be a flavor enhancer, not the main event.”  
Ford can see the reflection of his brother in one of the windows flipping him the bird.

     Ford snickered before settling back in to his seat before the charts, snagging a new pen from the cup at the edge of the table and taking a sip of his coffee before setting back to work. This was the easy part. This is what he loved about all of this; the familiar routine of it all. Stan would wake up well after Ford and set to working on brunch before both of them went topside to begin the daily tasks of keeping the Stan O’ War II afloat. Ford would take charge of the navigation while Stanley took care of hoisting the sails and setting them to catch the wind just so, directing the ship in the direction his brother had pointed. Once they had corrected their course and set her to sailing the way she needed to go, the both of them would work in shifts; Stan taking the first round of making sure they stayed on course while Ford marked down in the log book their course and coordinates. He’d take time to mark down the days events in his journal before switching off, taking the help while Stan tidied up the living quarters. When the sun began to sink, Stan would cobble together dinner and call Ford inside to come eat. Afterward, Ford would do the dishes while they discussed what the next leg of their journey would look like. In the evenings before turning in, they’d pass the time with a game of cards as they tried to tune in to a decent radio station. Some nights, they’d forgo the cards in favor of sharing a drink together while Ford listened as Stanley recounted the events of the past summer he’d spent with the twins.

      It made him smile to know that Stanley hadn’t lost his penchant for telling stories so well.

     It was peaceful. Something Ford had not noticed he’d missed until it was presented to him without the need to pay for any of it. But he knew that it was not bound to last. As the sounds of Stanley working in the kitchen faded to nothing but white noise, Ford felt the creeping familiar dread creep back up through his veins to settle heavy in his mind. His thoughts turn back to the musings of moments ago. Second chances…second chances were something out of his reach. Something he could not obtain from where he stood now. The peace of the past weeks couldn’t last and he knew it. He knew it and it killed him. All of this…all of this was nothing but borrowed time until the inevitable. Eventually, the powers that were would cut his allotted portion of time he was allowed to borrow short and he would be faced with the dimensions long list of his sins. Stanley would ask questions he couldn’t dismiss. He would demand answers Ford was not ready to give.

_“Sixer?”_

     To believe otherwise was folly. Stanley would turn the ship around and head straight back to Oregon, leaving him to complete this voyage alone. He would reject him.

_“Hey, Ford!”_

     Everyone had a limit to what they were willing to accept. Ford knew he was just barely toeing the line of what his brother could reasonably accept. When that line was crossed, this little reprieve from his life of solitude would come to a close.

     “Ford!”

     Ford cursed as his body jumped in shock, eyes focusing on the concerned look on his brother’s face.

     “Earth to planet Nerd.”

     Ford cleared his throat and forced a weak smile. “Heh…sorry Stanley. What is it?”

     Stanley rolled his eyes but repeated himself. “I said eggs an’ toast for breakfast. That alright with you?”

     “Uh, yes. Yes that sounds quite alright.” Ford said past the tightness in his throat. “Sorry…just lost in thought.”

     “Yeah, I got that bit.” his brother said, unimpressed with the jittery tone in his brothers voice. “You alright? This whole spacin’ out thing is nothin’ new, but you keep jumpin’ like you’re bein’ shot at.”

     Ford swallowed nervously as panic began to claw at his nerves. Stan didn’t know it, but he wasn't far off the mark. 'Not now,’ he begged mentally, his mind spiraling helplessly, 'Not now not now not now!’

     Ford forced down the frantic babbling of his thoughts as he fixed his face into an unassuming mask of stoicism, quirking a brow at his brother’s accusatory tone. “What do you mean?” he asked simply.

     “Sixer,” his brother began, voice taking on a tone reminiscent of a chiding parent, “In the past two weeks I have seen you go from 'high strung’ to 'preppin’ fer doomsday’ in no time flat. Ya walk around like your'e expectin’ the world to implode, or for the sky to grow a mouth an eat ya. You’ve always sucked at lyin’, and ya can’t just tell me that nothin’s up.”

     Stanley leaned over the back of the booth, one hand going to rest in a fist balled against his hip as he fixed Ford with an accusatory glare. “Start talkin’.” He demanded.

       Ford managed to keep his face impassive but inside, everything seemed to melt down to chaos. He had to think of something. Ford hated having to lie to his brother, but he simply was not ready for things to come to an end. He couldn’t let it happen, not yet. 'Think, dammit!’ His mind barked at him, 'Think!’  
“Stanley,” Ford tried, his voice taking on a softer edge by sheer force of will as he folded his six fingered hands together on the table, “Look…I…it’s just odd. To be back. You know…home.”

     Ford willed himself to glance up at his brother. Stanley didn’t immediately try to diffuse his meager attempt at a story, and instead raised one grizzled eyebrow up in silent urging for Ford to go on.

     “I know you must think my actions…a tad peculiar…but I can assure you, it’s nothing to warrant such concern.” Ford felt his muscles sieze up, locking themselves into tense readiness for action. Instinctual urge to flee was shoved down as deep as he could manage as he continued. “The world has changed, Stanley. Its all so…much to take in. The reason I seem a tad jumpy-”

     “Try 'too jumpy’,” his brother scoffed.

     “Er…TOO jumpy…” Ford amended, “Is because I am just getting used to things yet. And…maybe I have been indulging in a bit too much caffeine? But I can assure you, I’m alright. I just need a bit more time to settle in.”

     A pregnant silence fell between them as Ford prayed to all deities he could think of that Stan wouldn’t immediately see through his lie. As the seconds dragged on, Ford could feel the fraying ends of his composure begin to crumble. It seemed that an eternity had passed before Stanley broke the silence.

     “Well why didn’t ya say so?” Stanley asked with a smirk, walking around from his spot leaning against the back of the wraparound booth to clap Ford on the shoulder with a large hand. “Sixer, if there’s one thing ya can count on me for is to get'cha back into the swing a’ things!”

     Ford tried to smile convincingly back at his twin despite every cell in his body heaving a collective sigh of relief. His mind was a swirl of anxious excitement that his brother had so graciously accepted the lie as truth.  
Stanley wrapped his arm around Fords shoulder before continuing, “I can give ya a crash course they can’t teach ya anywhere else! But, first order a’ business is ta get some grub!” Stan released the grip on Ford’s shoulder as he sauntered back to the kitchen. “Allow me ta treat'cha to my famous Toad in a Hole!”

     Ford smiled at his brother’s retreating form before his entire form slumped in relief; all muscles going lax at once as he scrubbed his hands over his face. That was too close. Far, FAR to close. With the panic of a man who’d survived a near-death experience, Ford leaned forward and held his head in his hands as the guilt of his lie settled in. He’d LIED to Stanley. And he felt all the more a coward for it.

    Ford rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands before he sighed. He wasn’t sure how long Stanley would continue to buy into his story. He wasn’t sure how much mire time he could borrow before being caught red handed. Tiredly, Ford reached down into his jacket, fishing through the breast pocket until his fingers closed around the familiar texture of a well worn photograph.

     In times of calamity, when he was out traveling dimensions, the one thing that allowed him some shard of comfort was the photograph he now held in his hands. He knew the image by heart now; every pixel, every minute grain of sand, the exact shade of the yellowed clouds, and the smiles of the two boys they once were. Standing in front of that little wrecked boat, sunburned to hell and back, him and his brother smiled proudly as they posed for the photograph their mother had taken for the family scrapbook. If he truly concentrated, Ford could even smell the aloe cream they’d had to apply to their tender skin for days after.

     Second chances…second chances were something that maybe he’d deserved back then. Maybe on that fateful day thirty years ago, even, if he’d just listened to his brother. But now?

     Ford smiled down at the photo before his mind cruelly reminded him that that was all it was. A photo. A memory. Ford looked up to his brother in the kitchen, comparing him to the small boy he’d been at the time the photo was taken. His brother had changed so much. Ford raised his coffee cup and went to take a drink before he paused, catching his own reflection on the dark surface of the liquid contained inside. Ford huffed a sigh before setting the mug down again and glancing once more at the photo before he returned it carefully to his breast pocket.

     Now he wasn’t so sure. And it ate him alive.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan has some mistaken beliefs that he needs to get sorted out. Ford doesn't want him gone, but Stan believes otherwise and gets himself into trouble when his old employers com a'calling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thanks to my friend Emma for helping me edit this. You helped me to make sure I'm telling the story I want to tell in a way others can understand <3

As the hot sun of the Pacific Coast reached its peak in the sky above, Stan was in the process of guiding their beloved ship towards the rapidly approaching shoreline. The weather was fair; winds warm and welcoming as it caught the fabric of his hat and tee shirt, the smell of the ocean surf was crisp and genuine, the sky crystal blue and clear. The weather had been like this since the early morning hours. Ford had told his twin earlier that if the conditions held, they would reach their destination well before one in the afternoon. Stan had done his best to listen in as they worked in tandem to prepare the Stan O War II for the day’s journey, but he couldn't be bothered to glean more than the basic gist while preoccupied. It seemed that the world around him faded away as time slipped by. It couldn't have been more than a few minutes, but it felt like he was losing so much more. After the two had finished the riggings, Stan took first shift at the helm, Ford nodding and making sure he was all set before retreating below deck to make sure that they had all their documents in order for when they made port. This effectively left Stan up on deck, alone with his thoughts for the las leg of their trip to port.

   Normally, the circumstances wouldn't bother him in the slightest. Four decades of going between solitude and secrecy left a lot of time for a man to be shut in alone with his thoughts, as it turns out. But lately, his train of thought was going somewhere he wasn't liking, and he was finding himself listening ever closer to something that made his stomach go upside down.

Ford had lied to him that morning in the kitchen, and Stan had been wracking his brain for the past two days as to why. At first, he'd tried to let it be. He'd reasoned that maybe he was just worrying himself cross-eyed for nothing and Ford was just being awkward when telling the truth? But Stan had become a master of lying over the years, and could spot a fib a mile away, so that idea didn't last long. On top of that, Ford had always been a fast learner and quick to adapt to new things. The second idea he kicked around was maybe his brother was just running into trouble communicating. His older brother had never really been a people person, and they  _had_  spent four decades apart and if that didn't cause some kind of strain, Stan didn't know what would. After all,  _Ford_  had asked  _him_ to come with on his travels. A man who hated you didn't exactly go around doing that.

   The week after the kids left, they had begun packing up and making purchases. The whole time, Ford was in good spirits, joking with him and reminiscing about their past. They shared coffee in the mornings and talked for hours, joked around about everything under the sun, and even their bickering remained light. And when they had set sail, the atmosphere between them stayed the same; light and companionable. Brotherly. It stayed that way for days, and Stan started to loosen his grip on the fear that this was all just temporary.

   But of course, the universe made it a past time to make Stan Pines look like an idiot.

   A week ago, they had been sharing a drink after dinner while playing an impromptu version of twenty questions. The questions up until that point had been lighthearted; who they missed the most from the old neighborhood, what girls they regretted not asking out, and Ford had asked a ton of questions about Dipper and Mabel. They went on like that for hours, each of them laughing and having a genuinely good time. But of course, like everything he did, Stan had gone and fucked it up. He'd asked Ford a question about his time away from their home dimension, and suddenly the atmosphere between them changed into something heavy. Ford's shoulders had tensed and a fearful edge darkened his gaze, his entire demeanor shifting gears from relaxation to that of someone who looked like he was prepared for a firing squad to burst through the door at any second. After that, Ford had excused himself, saying that it was late and how they should turn in, leaving Stan to clean up the shot glasses alone in the dark.

   He'd hoped that after that awkward incident had been forgotten that they'd be able to slip into their previous groove, but it looked like the needle had skipped too far off of the record. Ford only became more skittish after that; jumping at every unexpected noise and shadow, his stance never seemed to relax back into one of ease. He'd been hiding himself away more and more often, either by throwing himself into his work or by retreating into any part of the ship where Stan wasn't present. It was disheartening to say the absolute least, and heartbreaking at how obvious his brother's avoidance of him had become. However, it gave Stan the evidence he needed to permanently retire the notion that Ford was being nervous because of the time apart. If that were the case, Ford would have been that way in the beginning and probably rescinded his offer before their niece and nephew had left. It left Stan with only one more idea as to the origin of his older brother's odd behavior, and he hated this idea more than anything else.

   Ford had finally gotten wise to how bad an idea it was to keep him around.

   Stan sighed heavily when the full weight of that idea and the sense it made had finally started to sink in. A cold and creeping dread started to burrow into his heart from somewhere deep in his stomach, but he fought the feeling down with everything he had. Frustratingly, his body persisted in its efforts to tear him up from the inside out as his limbs became deadweights when the cold beginnings of panic forced their way through the tendons therein. Luckily, Stan had become an old hand at suppressing his panic, and with practiced hands fished out the pack of cigarettes and the lighter he'd kept in the front pocket of his jeans. Taking a smoke from the carton, he used his hand to cup the flame that caught from the lighter and inhaled deeply to get the tobacco to catch. 

   “Ya knew this was comin'.” he chided himself tiredly as he exhaled a plume of grey smoke, “No use gettin' all worked up now.”

   Stan had seen this coming from the beginning. He'd tried to reason away the feelings in their earliest stages, but it turns out that you can only fight the inevitable for so long before it caught up. He was stupid to think that things could just be easy for a change. If there was one thing his youth had taught him, it was that family was never easy to deal with. If his old man had taught him anything, it was that a person like Stan was nothing short of forgettable. Ford had always been the favored of the two; always getting praise for his sharp mind and thirst for knowledge while Stan had been forcibly subjected to his role as the ‘other' twin. No matter how pure his intentions or how wholehearted his efforts were, he'd always been the subject of ridicule. Stan had to lie and cheat his way towards any sort of recognition, but Ford had always seen his efforts and taken his side.

   But his dad had turned out to be right; Stan was nothing short of a fuckup and those notions came to that night forty years ago. Ford had been devastated upon finding out about Stan's accidental betrayal and had turned his back from him, just like their father. He'd been disowned until he could make up for his mistakes, and he'd had to lie and cheat and run for the following ten years because of it. He'd had to hone his skills as a liar and had to sharpen his wit to a razor-like edge if he was gonna live day to day. He'd had to take the not-so-honorable road of the traveling salesman. When that idea went up in smoke, he'd resorted to more drastic measures. His heart dulled and his morals became grayer and grayer by the day as the notion of ever being welcomed back by his family started to slip further through his fingers.

   So when Ford had called him up to Gravity Falls after a decade of no contact, it surprised him that there was even a spark of hope left in him. For the first time in ten years, he'd had hope that maybe he'd had a shot to make up for his mistakes and to put out the growing inferno of a burning bridge between them. But when Stan had arrived there, Ford had made it clear that he'd have no chance to make an attempt at any such thing. Like so many others that his brother wasn't aware of, he'd only called on Stan to do a job. As the flames of his hope died yet again, Stan had only come to make another grave mistake by getting his brother sucked through the portal, consigning him to a fate of God-knew-what on the other side of that rippling light. 

   He'd taken the next thirty years of his life to make up for it; working day and night endlessly to try to get that accursed thing working again. He'd had to effectively get himself declared as deceased, lie to his family, and spend three decades worth of lonely nights to pay for his mistake, and when Ford had returned it still wasn't enough. And when the sky split and tore and the world around them came to an end, Stan knew it was his fault. He'd remembered the warnings in the pages of his brother's journal that he'd ignored in favor of his one track minded goal, and he'd known that his brother had told him that his risk taking would have grave consequences. He'd have more making up to do, it seemed. And when the price was named, there in the dark halls of that evil place, he'd decided to pay up without a second thought. After all, his mind wasn't much use to him or anyone else.

   The fact that his darling niece was even able to start his mind to mending was a miracle in and of itself. When his incredible nephew and his brother had joined in on the effort to repair his shattered identity, it was the rekindling of his dead and dying hope. And when his brother had asked him to join him on living out their childhood dream, he'd had to take a moment to make sure it was happening.

   But of course, nothing good was built to include him. He should have known, and the fact that he didn't made him damn his own blind stupidity. He was a screw up, a liar, a fraud…no forgiveness could exist for a man like him. 

   Stan inhaled as the last of his cigarette came to an end, blowing the last plume of smoke out above his head and tossed the spent filter into a coffee can at his feet. The panic that had gripped him earlier had subsided now, and his lungs expanded to their full capacity as Stan took in a deep breath to clear his thoughts. He had to come up with a plan. Ford didn't really want him here, he was certain of that now, and he'd have to make tracks before his brother could put two and two together and leave him in some unfamiliar country. He'd have to leave of his own volition if he wanted to avoid any more heartache that always came when he knew he'd be getting left behind again. Stan looked out towards the shoreline and saw the harbor of the small desert town come into view and set to working on parking the boat when they got close enough. He could think while he worked.

   If he was lucky, the town would have a bus station or some kind of inter-city transit system that ran between this town and a bigger one. He could use some of his savings to snag up a bus ticket out of town before Ford caught on and be gone by the time the sun rose. Worst case scenario was him having to hijack a car, but he wasn't aiming to be sent to another prison while he was here. But first, he'd have to make it through the day. The whole reason they were making a stop here was for a supply run, and he knew for a fact that Ford didn't know a lick of Spanish. The least he could do was get his brother all set before they parted ways. He may have been a fuckup but he wasn't about to leave his brother high and dry after all the trouble he'd put him through already.

   As the ship coasted to a near stop, Stan jumped down from the roof of the cabin and went towards the bow. As he gathered the rope they used to tie themselves off in his hands, a small part of him called out and gave him pause.  _Do ya really need to bail?_  It asked him in a small voice,  _Maybe yer readin' too much in ta this. Sixer asked ya ta come with._

   Stan shook his head quickly to rid himself of the idea. He  _had_ to do this. Not only because he had to know when to cut his losses, but he couldn't be the thing that held his brother back any longer. Ford had so much potential. So much to discover. He'd missed thirty years of his life because of Stan's mistakes and he'd be damned if he was gonna be the cause of anything else his brother was going to miss. Sure he didn't know what he was going to do, or where he was gonna go after he split, but that was his problem and not Ford’s. He'd figure it out. He'd made it this far with scraping by, he could manage one more stint before he got to wherever he was gonna go.

   Ford didn't need him.

   As the wooden dock of the port came close enough to grab, Stan clasped the edge in his hands and pulled them so they were lined up, tying the boat off to the wooden post before him, securing it with a sturdy knot before climbing onto the wooden surface. The place looked pretty empty spare a few fishing boats, and after scanning for a moment he located what must have been the office and started towards it. Hopefully while he was exchanging some of their cash to pesos he could get some information on the local transit system. As he made his way towards the office, Stan froze in his tracks as his eyes caught the words emblazoned on a sign that welcomed visitors. On that sign was the name of the town, and as soon as he'd read it a familiar ringing started its peeling shriek from deep within the confines of his head.

   This place. He  _knew_ it.

   As the world began to spiral away, his vision faded to black. A splitting headache started in the back of his head, breaking fissures in his mind as his stomach had set to flipping. Stan's knees went weak and he collapsed to the ground, latching his hands desperately to the sides of his head as the crippling pain threatened to all but rip his mind apart from the inside out. Flash images danced across his vision and the ringing in his ears was replaced with distant sounds and the faintest hints of familiar smells. A gray plume of acrid-smelling cigar smoke as it billowed out of the mouth of a man who wore a greasy smile. The bloody aftermath of a broken man who couldn't pay on time. Snow white powder that was packaged in cellophane and taped into neat and orderly bricks. And a distant voice, thick with the hint of an accent.

_“You truly are as a brother to me, Mr. Alcatraz.”_

   The images began to fade, but the ringing in his ears and the agony in his head stayed as the world came back to him in patchwork pieces. He'd worked here a lifetime ago, far before his brother had called on him. He remembered. The guns. The money. The drugs. And that man with the cigar. He'd been here before. He'd seen it all before. In the cartel. As the last fragments of memory slide into place, the world around him shifts into focus. The wooden pier under his knees and against his elbows was rough and uncomfortable. The sun was far too hot now that the ocean breeze that had surrounded him earlier was gone. There is the distinct cry of a flock of seagulls that stands out against the lapping of waves against the shore. And there's a familiar weight of a six fingered hand on his left shoulder.

_Ford._

   His twin’s voice is muffled, like it's coming from above the surface of water he's currently treading to break the surface. His brother sounds frantic as he can begin to make out the muffled words.

_“Stanley?! Stanley! Can you hear me?!”_

   The ringing in his ears lessens as he gets closer to coherence and he can hear his own ragged breath take its place. His brother shakes him gently, and he can feel a second hand come to rest on his back between his shoulder blades. “Stan, answer me! Are you okay?”

  Stan laughs inwardly at how genuine his brother's voice sounds, the concern nearly convincing. He has to respond. He's gotta get his brother to stop worrying so damn much about a waste like him. “Yeah…” he says, his voice rough as he releases his head from his hands. “Just gimme a sec, wouldya?”

   His twin sighs in relief and Stan can feel his own ease start to settle in. “Remember to breathe slowly,” Ford urges him gently, “Don't try to stand until you are ready.”

   “Right,” Stan agreed with a nod, filling his lungs with a deep breath. And then another. The pain in his skull subsided to a dull thumping behind his eyes. Finally, the shuddering in his limbs subsided as his strength came back to him. Slowly, he chanced to open his eyes, blinking at the ridiculously bright sun. Slowly, Stan hoisted himself upwards and his brother backed away, removing his hand from his shoulder to give him enough space so he could stand. The world was decidedly spinning much less as he righted himself, breathing in deeply once more to make sure he was anchored.

   “Are you alright?” Ford asked again, his voice still carrying worry with every word. “That looked as though it was quite powerful.”

   Stan laughed once without humor, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “Yeah, that's certainly one word fer it.” Stan bent over, hands on his knees as a wave of nausea settled in his stomach. Nothing too serious, but still far from pleasant as the final aftershocks of the Memory Event left his system. 

   A sympathetic six fingered hand closed around his shoulder before Ford spoke again. “I should check in with Fiddleford to see if he has any new information about this,” he thought aloud, hand patting Stan's shoulder, “Maybe he's found a way to mitigate the effects of your memories shifting back into place. Hopefully something that makes the aftermath less hard on your system.”

   “Hey, if he's found anything that could at least get rid a this nausea, I'd consider it a plus.” Stan huffed as he righted himself. The knots in his stomach finally subsided and when he fully opened his eyes, Stan was pleased to find that the sunlight no longer seemed so harsh. Hopefully, nothing else would trigger a response like this while he skipped town. The last thing he needed was a splitting headache as he made his way back home.

   “Do you remember what it was about?” Ford asked.

   The blood in his veins turned to ice as his mind began barreling down the tracks. He couldn't tell him. He couldn't tell Ford about his seedy dealings down here in Mexico. He couldn't tell Ford about the people he'd fallen in with while struggling to stay alive. He wouldn't understand. He couldn't. He couldn't exactly lie to him; Ford had seen just how devastating the aftershocks were and he knew that it had to be powerful in order to throw him into so much agony. But he couldn't bring himself to tell the truth either.

   Ford hated him enough as it was.

   He needed a diversion, fast.

   Stan breathed in deep to settle his nerves before turning to his brother and quirking an eyebrow. “How are ya not boilin' to death right now?” Stan asked him, genuinely shocked to see his brother had ditched his windbreaker, but still wore his burgundy turtleneck sweater. “Ya do realize that it's, like, a hundred degrees out, right?”

   Some part of the universe must have taken pity on him, because Ford looked genuinely confused when he retracted his hand. “What do you mean?” he asked, “What's wrong with my attire?”

   Stan straightened up and crossed his arms, giving his twin a teasing smile. “Dunno about you, Sixer, but generally the rest a the world doesn't go around in wool sweaters in the middle of a desert town like this.”

Ford scoffed at him, rolling his eyes. “Stan, this temperature is downright lovely compared to some of the places I've been. I can assure you that I'm perfectly comfortable.”

   Stan cocked an eyebrow. He could still feel hesitation that burrowed itself deep in his bones. Moments like these are what he'd miss. His brother was definitely strange, and maybe he did seem distant at times, but he was still his brother who he'd spent thirty years trying to rescue. If he was honest with himself, he'd be able to admit that no part of him  _wanted_ to leave Ford's side. He wanted to stay. He wanted to travel with his brother and finally repair their friendship that had been so thoroughly tarnished. But just because Stan wanted that, it didn't mean Ford did. Stan decided to tempt fate.

   “Really? Did'ya travel to a place that was colder than anywhere on Earth, too?” he asked nonchalantly. If Ford gave him a straight answer, then maybe he really  _was_ reading into all of this too much.

   But much to his dismay, he could practically  _see_ the moment his twin's walls went shooting back up as that sad, anxious edge made its way back to his gaze. Ford's expression fell in an instant, and Stan could feel the familiar sputtering of that little bit of hope he'd had left as it dimmed more and more. “Perhaps another time,” his brother muttered distantly as he started towards the office at the end of the pier. “If you're feeling up to it, we should really focus on getting the supplies, Stanley.”

   Stan squashed down the last bit of heartache that threatened to break his poker face.  _Serves ya right_ , he taunted himself. He already had his answer, but he still held out for the impossible. Ford didn't trust him. He kept him at arm’s length, and for good reason. Stan was no good. A waste of space.

   A screw up.

   All that he could do now was deal with the fact that he was hoping for the impossible and he'd gotten what he deserved for hoping. Stan walked to catch up with his brother, making sure to go over his plan in his head to make sure he had it right. The least he could do now was leave and get out of his brother's way. He didn't listen thirty years ago, but he figured that it was better late than never. And maybe he  _was_ a coward to cut and run without hearing what his brother really thought, but that didn't surprise him either. Just another item on the list of why he was truly irredeemable.

   But the one thing that he truly regretted wasn't the fact that his brother hating him was his fault, or the fact that he'd just be leaving without a word from either of them.

   The thing that really killed him was that he didn't even have the guts to say goodbye.

 

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

   For being a small town, it sure had an extensive marketplace. Stalls lined the large open thoroughfare as far down as Stan could see; locals selling their wares or food goods, small businesses showing off their specialty items, and of course stalls that sold some poorly crafted knock-off items of bigger name goods. Food vendors took up the spaces in between, the smells of local cuisines and specialties wafted through the air and found their ways to the noses of hungry customers and curious locals. The entire length of the vista was crowded with people as the residents of the city were making their rounds of the marketplace, striking deals and going through their daily shopping.

   The sun was high overhead, there were floods of people all around them, and he was fairly certain that the heat from the food vendors carts somehow managed to crank up the heat of the whole place by at least twelve degrees. Suffice it to say, the entire atmosphere was starting to grate on his nerves.

   Stan once again wiped the sweat from his forehead away with the back of his hand, flicking the salty drips onto the pavement below. The two of them had already made a round of the entire stretch of marketplace, walking about between crowds of people for what seemed like hours and they still hadn't completed their shopping list, Ford dragging Stan back through the crowded streets once again to try to find the goods they were looking for. Stan groaned inwardly for what must have been the fifth time that minute but kept walking. The sooner he and his brother finished getting what they needed, the sooner Stan could get him back to the boat and make sure he was set up before he himself made tracks.

It was the right thing to do, after all. Ford brother had dragged him all the way down the Pacific coast even though it had been established that he didn’t want to, kept him company through the Memory Events that he'd had along the way, and made sure he didn't fall overboard when the waves became less tame. The least he could do was stuff down his whining. It was his own fault for agreeing to come along anyhow. He should have known better.

   On the other hand…this was probably the last time he was going to see his twin for quite some time. After he split, he didn't know when or even  _if_  he'd see Ford again. Even though he knew that this was for the best, he still felt his heart ache at the thought of leaving. Every cell in his body recoiled in protest when it came to the final steps of his plan. He didn't want to do this, but he knew he had to. He'd held his brother back enough in the past and he didn't think he could stomach any more.

   He'd just have to enjoy the time they had left.

   He just wished it didn't have to be so god damned  _hot_.

   “Ey, Sixer,” Stan said loud enough for his brother to hear, “What’re ya so stuck on findin'? We've passed all these places already.”

   Ford turned to shoot Stan an apologetic glance, pausing so he could catch up while he adjusted his satchel to a more comfortable position across his shoulder. “Sorry, Stanley,” he said with a sheepish smile, “I know you're probably worn out by now. But trust me when I say we can take a rest as soon as we're done. Don't worry! It shouldn't be too long before we find it.” Ford gave his shoulder a reassuring pat before turning back to face the market, eyes scanning the wares displayed out on the stalls.

   Stan rolled his eyes, begrudgingly starting his pace up again. “Sure we will,” he groused. He was still annoyed at the fact that Ford wasn't even sweating even with the torrid heat and his ridiculous wool sweater. How did he even manage to put up with it? They had already made a few purchases and, even with the weight added to his satchel, Ford still didn’t look the least bit uncomfortable. His brother had always been the odd man out, but to completely ignore heat while carrying at least twenty extra pounds was just ridiculous.

   Ford's attention suddenly snapped up to a little vendor’s stall nestled about halfway up the block, tucked between two others that were selling fruits and vegetables. Stan followed closely behind his brother, pausing to look at what had caught his interest when he caught up to him. Laid out on display were various spices and herbs, all lined up in baskets or hung from the top ledge of the booth. Stan recognized some of them from Ford's impromptu lessons; mint, anise, sage, as well as others he didn't recognize. Stan looked at his brother quizzically, watching as Ford's brow furrowed in concentration before his eyes lit up and a smile spread across his face. “Aha!” he said, pointing out some kind of dried bark, “There it is! I was hoping we would find some.”

   “Okay, great. We found it.” Stan deadpanned, “Let's grab some an’ get outta here. Pretty sure I'm goin' through the first stages a' heat stroke.”

   Ford waved over the owner of the shop, a young woman who looked to be in her twenties, and pointed to the bark piled in the wicker basket. “Yes, I'd like about a pound of this right here, please.”

      The young woman raised a confused eyebrow. “Yo no sé,” she said after a moment.

      Stan had to stop himself from snickering as he watched his brother raise his eyebrows in surprise before he pinched the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses up. “Right,” he sighed.

      “What’sa matter, Sixer?” Stan teased, because  _man_ he couldn’t help it, “Can’t speak the language?”

    “Oh, ha ha, Stanley,” Ford shot back, sighing as he tried to get the young woman to understand him. Stan could only let it go on for so long before he intervened. As much as he liked to tease his brother, this was just getting sad. Stan gently nudged his very confused brother out of the way before he grabbed the paper out of his hand and gave it a once-over.  _‘Clavellina?’_ He thought to himself before he spoke up. He had no idea what it was, but if his brother was adamant on getting it, then he supposed he’d have to play along. The sooner he got his brother set up, the sooner he could get out of dodge before things became any more difficult.

   “Disculpe, tienes este articulo en venta?” Stan asked the woman, easily falling back into this second language. He had to suppress a grin when his brother gave him a shocked look as he handed over the paper to the woman, pointing at the item that he needed. 

   The woman tending the front of the market stall gave him a smile, “Sí, Señor.” She replied with a kind smile, “Sólo espera un momento, por favor.” the woman bid him as she handed the list back into Stan’s waiting hand.

   “Por supuesto,” Stan returned the woman’s smile, “Muchas gracias.” Stan took another look at the list, checking though the rest of it to see just how much more the two of them had to soldier through before he’d have to head towards the bus station. It didn’t look like there was all that much left, maybe four or five more things yet, but time wasn’t exactly something he had. Stan checked his watch to make sure he still had time. From what he’d understood, his bus was supposed to leave the station at three-thirty, and it was already nearing two. He’d have to speed things along if he wanted to get a move on and get back to the boat quick enough to grab his duffle bag full of his stuff before he had to be at the station.

   The feeling of eyes on him snapped Stan back to the present and he turned to his right to see his brother staring at him with his mouth agape in shock. “What?” Stan asked him, “Somethin’ on my face?” 

   “Wha-no.” Ford stammered back, clearing his throat before raising a questioning eyebrow at his twin, “Stan, you never told me you spoke Spanish. When did you pick that up?”

   Shit. Stan felt a momentary pulse of panic through his system while he tried to come up with a good reason.  _C’mon, Stan,_  he urged himself,  _You can lie yer way outta pretty much anything._  “I had to pick it up while I was doin’ a gig down in New Mexico. A commercial for something’ I was sellin’ an’ I figured I might as well learn the rest of it while I had the chance,”

   Ford furrowed his brows at his brother, an unsure look flashing across his face. “Stan, it would take more than just a short while to be able to speak a new language fluently. Why did you choose to learn the whole lot of it if you just needed it for one job?”

   “What’s with the third degree? It’s a good business venture ta be able ta speak multiple languages. Sue me.” Stan told him with a shrug, trying not to show Ford just how desperate he was for him to just drop it already.

   Ford sighed and rolled his eyes just as the stall tender came back with the packaged up herb and gave them their total. Stan fished out his wallet from his pocket and handed over the payment as Ford stowed away the small wrapped packet into the satchel that hung from his shoulder. Stan bid the woman farewell before the two of them started back down the street, back to perusing the stalls all over again. Stan groaned inwardly. They’d  _never_  get everything on the list in time if they kept going at this pace. Stan had to think of a plan, especially if he wanted this to work. Stan pulled his brother to one side f the street to allow those around them to get past. “Hey, Sixer,” he said, “I’m thinkin’ maybe we could tackle this a bit easier if we split it right down tha middle. Y’know, you take half and I take half?”

    _‘So then when I finish my half, I can get outta your way.’_  He thought solemnly.

   Ford regarded his brother with a nervous look, hands gripping the paper he had between his hands. “Stanley, I don’t know...” He began, “This market is huge, and what if we lose each other or get separated...”

    _Oh, come on..._ Stan needed him to agree. He needed Ford to just agree with him. Didn’t he see this was for his benefit in the long run? Stan swallowed down his rising nerves and plastered on a fake smile. “Hey, no worries.” He said with a chuckle and elbowing Ford in the arm, “It might be a big market, but we both know how ta get back to the boat in case one of us loses the other. How ‘bout we meet back there in an hour?” He suggested.

   “Well...I must admit that sounds reasonable...but I still think we should get together.” Ford said with a firmness to his tone that betrayed the smirk he had going, “Besides, one of us has been hiding the fact that they’re well versed in the native language. I’ll need you to translate.”

   Stan had to keep himself from actually deflating once his brother had given his answer.  _Shit_. He couldn’t give up. Why couldn’t Ford just agree? Why did he have to force him to keep trying so hard to get him to give up? It’s not like he really wanted to do this, but he knew that if he stuck around, he’d just screw everything up again. 

   “C’mon, Sixer. I’m dyin’ out here in this heat. If we split up, we can cover more ground. Besides,” Stan said with a pat to his brother’s shoulder. “There’s a little phrase ya can use if ya find yourself in a tight spot. All the newbies use it, and it gets the locals ta ease up on ya.”

   Ford shoots his brother a surprised look, eyebrows nearly reaching his hairline. “Really?” He asked, “What is it?” 

   Stan smirked from ear to ear, looking Ford in the eyes when he spoke. “Just tell ‘em ‘Pardoname’, soy un ignorante estadounidense.’ Works every time.”

   Ford’s expression shifted when he caught the gist of what Stan had told him, and his eyes narrowed. “Stan. What does that mean?” He asked in a tone that almost had Stan laughing.

   He managed to stifle the laugh that threatened to bubble up from his throat when he responded. “It translates ta ‘Forgive me, I am an ignorant American.”

   Ford shook his hand off his shoulder with an unimpressed eyeroll. “Brilliant, Stanley. Very funny.” He deadpanned as Stan slung a shoulder around his shoulder.

   “Hey, don’t get all grumpy, bro! I was only teasin’. Besides, with that big ol’ brain a yours, you’ll be speakin’ the lingo in no time at all.” Stan released his hold on his brother before taking the list and ripping it right down the middle, handing a half back to Ford. Once he has read over his part, he starts to walk away from his still annoyed brother.

   “What th- Stanley!” He hears Ford shout after him but doesn’t turn to look, “I don’t even know the basics of the language! How am I supposed to get what we need?!”

   “They say the best way ta learn is through experience, pal!” Stan hollers back over his shoulder with a wave, “I’ll see ya in an hour! Remember what I told ya!”

   Stan snickers to himself one more time as he hears an all too familiar sigh of exasperation behind him before his face falls into a hard expression. He feels awful for bailing the way he did, but he had the utmost faith in his twin. If anyone could figure out a language in a day, it was his brother. The feelings of guilt were piling up, however, and it took every minute shred of self-control Stan had in him not to turn around and go back. But like most things that weren’t particularly correct, Stan was an old hand at suffocating his guilt under just sheer willpower by now. Ford was strong. Ford was smart. Ford was good at adapting. He didn’t need him getting in the way of his future any more than he already had.

   All he had left to do was to finish this stupid shopping list and then he could make a b-line for the station past the market square, and then he could finally take a hint and get out of his brother’s way. It may be forty years too late, but it’s better late than never. Stan shook his head to get his focus back to the task at hand, glancing down at the list in his hands. He had a job to do.

   The list was simple enough; a few more herbs, rope, and a certain kind of crystal he’d never even heard of. But hey, he’d deciphered an entire book of codes in his lifetime with no outside help. This would be a cakewalk. Stan expertly dodged and weaved his way between the throngs of people that crowded the street, finding all the items he needed in a little over a half an hour. It was really an easy task when he’d really put his mind to it. With the paper bag in his hand, Stan strode between the crowds and made his way back towards the harbor.

   He was just nearing the market’s edge, the final rows of vendors and stalls coming up ahead when Stan suddenly felt...off. Something around him made all of the hairs on his arms stand on end. The atmosphere suddenly shifted gears around him and it had him looking around in all directions. Nothing around him pinged his radar, but Stan couldn’t shake this familiar sensation. He could feel it. He could physically feel the eyes on him from somewhere he wasn’t catching.

   He was being followed.

    _Cool it,_  he told himself firmly,  _Freakin’ out is only gonna make it worse. Concentrate. Find out who._

   Stan took a deep breath, focusing on listening closely as he continued to walk away from the mass of people that crowded the town’s Main Street, eyes staying forward. Breathing was the only thing keeping him from jumping out of his skin at the slightest glance from a stranger. The pulse beneath his skin had grown to a roaring river that sent his head to near spinning, but he managed to keep upright and moving. He'd dealt with this before, more times than he could count, and he knew his senses weren't going to lead him astray. Stan took a deep breath, and then another, calming his heart rate from a thunderous beat to a more manageable pace. He was right, freaking out and making a scene would only make it worse, especially since he didn't know if this ‘shadow' of his was alone or not. Stan scanned his surroundings for anything he could use to his advantage, his heart nearly skipping a beat when he saw what could be his saving grace;

Near the end of the row of vendors, there was a stall that was selling vanity items. Including, much to his luck, hand mirrors.

_Bingo!_ Stan thought with a wide smile, making sure to keep a casual pace as he made his way over. With a wave of greetings, Stan grabbed ahold of one of the hanging mirrors that dangled from the edge of the shop stand, turning it over in his palm. He pointed the reflective surface this way and that, eyes scanning the reflection for anyone who stood out. At first it only caught the reflections of people moving to and fro about the edge of the market; shoppers packing up their purchases, food vendors passing out samples, nothing out of the ordinary.

Until one man caught his eye.

He was a bit on the shorter side, short black hair that was gelled back and a mean looking pair of aviators hanging on to the bridge of his nose. The guy was dressed in jeans, a white tee shirt with a black bikers vest over the top, and heavy steel-toed boots. Stan could barely see it, but after double checking, he was sure this guy was eyeing him from across the way. _Yeesh,_ he thought to himself, _Maybe you should try to be more subtle._ This guy looked seasoned to say the least. Not a common pickpocket or thief. The way he regarded Stan from his spot across the way had a damned near predatory edge to the way he carried himself. He seemed lax, like he didn't have a care in the world. Business as usual for this man, it seemed. He probably found Stan to be an easy target.

Poor schmuck was in for a rude awakening.

Casually, Stan released the mirror from his hold and shook his head at the shopkeeper to show his disinterest and started to walk away, grabbing up a small compact mirror from the side of the display while the guy behind the counter was busy with a young mother and her kid. Stan flipped the mirror open, able to catch the image of the man begin to follow behind him. Stan smirked. This should be easy for him. Stan pocketed the small mirror and headed down a narrow side street, ducking out of sight from the main crowd. Sure, it was reckless, but the side streets were always less wide open. More places to hide, and sharper corners too. If he wanted to shake Steel Toes, he'd have to get crafty.

Stan zig-zagged through the back streets and the alleys that connected them, following no set pattern as he tried to shake this guy. Every few blocks, he'd double back on himself through an alley by hopping a fence or ducking through a courtyard, picking up the same random pattern again when he'd thought the coast was clear. The only issue that seemed to be popping up was that, no matter how hard he tried to shake him, Mr. Steel Toes was right on his tail. Stan could see the shift in his reflection as his expression fell from calm and predatory to that of pure irritation. Stan smirked and almost wanted to turn around to taunt him, but he didn't need this guy to start chasing him at full tilt. He knew he wouldn't get far with how tired and dehydrated he was. Hopefully the guy would get bored of him and give up, but as the blocks turned into entire streets, and then into entire neighborhoods, Stan was fairly certain that wasn't going to be the case.

As he rounded another building, Stan could make out a sound that accompanied the heavy footsteps that came from behind him. Only, this sound wasn't coming from behind him…

Stan cursed aloud when he could hear the sound of an oncoming car, turning to see two men in similar attire approaching in a battered green-blue pickup truck. When had the fucker called for backup? Stan grit his teeth together as he rounded the corner of a building that lead down a narrow alleyway, only to stop in his tracks when he realized it was a dead end.

_Damn._

Behind him, he could hear as the telltale screech of rusted car doors slamming shut signaled that he didn't have any time left. Three pairs of footsteps scuffed against the dirt of the street as they made their way towards the mouth of the alleyway.

**_Double_ ** _damn._

Stan felt in his back pockets for the familiar weight of his knuckle dusters, taking them out of their places and slipping them onto his hands with practiced ease. They felt comforting as they threaded through his fingers and the familiar weight settled into the forms of his palms when he closed his fists tightly around the grip. Dropping the small package he was holding in his hand to the ground, sliding his hands into his front pockets, Stan readied himself as the forms of his stalkers peeked into the alley way.

Steel Toes lead the other two, a skinny guy made of wiry muscles with murder in his eyes followed closely behind on his left, and a bigger guy tailing his right. The trio stopped when they were about ten feet from Stan, spreading out to bar the exit to the alleyway. There was silence before Steel Toes cut through it, his voice echoing off the tan-bricked walls that surround them.

“You sure gave us the runaround, asshole,” he said casually with a voice laced with venom, “You finally get tired?”

Stan shrugged, a humorless smirk splitting his lips. “Nah, woulda' given you three stooges the chase of yer lives if you played fair. Look, I'm a busy man, so if ya want somethin', spit it out. I got shit ta do an' places ta be.”

Steel Toes snickered, removing his shades to give Stan a wicked glare. “Ya know, at first I really thought I was seein' things,” he said to no one in particular, polishing one of his lenses on his shirt, “But now I know you're the real deal.”

Stan cocked an eyebrow, “What, ya thinkin' ya know me? Sorry, kid, but I've never seen a face as ugly as yers. Trust me, I'd remember.”

Steel Toes didn't even flinch at the insult, settling his aviators back on his face. “Older dude, broad shoulders, Jersey accent, and a penchant for being a huge pain in the ass.” He listed off, each item on his list putting him another step closer to Stan, “Yeah, no doubts about it. You're _exactly_ the guy we've been waiting for.”

The tall one to the left of Steel Toes coughed out a laugh, “What, this old dude?” he asked, “Nah, no way Javi. This wrinkly motherfucker can't be him. I mean, lookit him! Old bastards got a gut so big he looks like he's eight months in!”

Stan shot him a glare, “Ya might wanna watch yer mouth, ya little shit,” he growled out, squaring his shoulders up even more, “Or I'll just shut yer yap for ya.”

“The fuck did you say?!” asked the muscly kid, stomping past Steel Toes and right into Stans face. “Wanna repeat that, puta?” he spat.

Stan just rolled his eyes before he swiftly ripped his fist out of his pocket, landing a solid right hook to the kids jaw. The kid staggered back, collapsing into a pile of rubble and dust, his head lolling to the side with one blow. Knocked out cold. _Good,_ Stan thought viciously before a viciously cold edge came up to rest against his throat. Stan froze immediately, eyeing Steel Toes as he held a vicious looking razor against his jugular.

“Hey, c'mon now,” he said with all the gentleness of a cobra ready to strike, “There's no reason to go punching people out cold like that. We just wanna talk, that's all.”

Stan stayed frozen in place, every nerve set to coiling tight like a wound clock as he eyed the hand that held the straight razor against his neck. “Sure got a funny way a showin' it.” He snarled, steadying his breath. Steel Toes only smiled as he started to pace in a circle around Stan, the razor tip dragging light against his skin.

“You know, our employer has been waiting to see you for a very long time,” Steel Toes hissed, the lightest pressure causing the very tip of the blade to dig into Stan's neck, “You and him were business partners, if you recall.”

Stan fought against the tensing of his muscles as they urged him to react, blood starting to drip slowly down from the gash that collared around his neck. The salt from his sweat stung the newly formed cut, and the feeling of his blood soaking into the collar sent his body into a full-blown adrenaline rush. He balled his fists tightly in his pockets, willing himself to be still and silent.

Steel Toes smirked as he eased the edge of the blade away from dragging against his captives neck, “No? Not ringing any bells huh?” he asked, flipping the blade around in his hand until it danced dangerously close to biting into the tip of Stans nose. “Maybe a name to jog your memory, then? Does the name…Esquela mean anything to you?”

Stans eyes widened at the name, a flood of the newly reformed memories rushing to the forefront of his mind. He _did_ know that name. He knew it and it made him sick. Stan's vision was clouded by images of the greasy looking man from his memories. Stan felt the wind go out of him, nausea rushing up to meet him tenfold. _He's_ ** _still_** _alive?!_ He asked himself in shock.

A cruel chuckle brought him back to reality just moments before he felt a knee land solidly in his gut, knocking him to his knees, vision suddenly swimming with black dots around the edges as he clutched his aching abdomen. He breathed in heavily, trying to force air back into his lungs by the gulp. But he couldn't get himself to fight the pain that sang through his nerves like lightning down a lightning rod. Another pain struck him, this time in the back of the head. His ears began to ring painfully as he collapsed forward onto his stomach.

_“You two,”_ he heard Steel Toes bark from far away, _“Get him up and in the truck. Someone will wanna see this…”_

Stans vision swam as his world started to fade. This was bullshit. As soon as he takes the steps to do the right thing for the first time in forty years, his past just _had_ to catch up with him and bite him in the ass. Of course it did. Because nothing was ever easy for him, was it? It could never be easy for him. Figures.

And even though the world careened into a swirl of color and noise around him, even though he had planned on leaving because he thought it was for the best, and even though he knew he had no right to say it, a name escapes him right before he hits the brink of unconsciousness.

_“Ford…”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really want to make the chapters longer so I can tell this story in depth. Let me know if you guys enjoy! I'll post the next chapter as soon as I'm able.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ford's head is not a fun place to be. In the midst of the chaos of the marketplace, Ford runs into Stan and is at first unsure of what to do. Until, of course, he notices Stan has attracted some unwanted company.

     The sun was high in the sky, traveling on its set path from east to west, throwing the streets and the people that walked the market square into its golden glow. Shadows danced along the walls, the shade morphing and changing as the light caught the very edges of the buildings and the people that milled in between the gaps. The day was drawing on, just like it had always done, and yet there was something about today that had Stanford Pines terrified beyond all rational thought.

     

     It was once written by HP Lovecraft that fear was the oldest and strongest emotion known to mankind, and that there was no older or stronger fear than that of the unknown. Ford had travelled the multiverse from one corner to the next. He’d witnessed terrors so maddening that it seemed as though all he knew and understood was null and void. He’d witnessed war, death, famine, slavery and every single awful thing that came with them, as well as seeing everything in between. But despite his time in the Beyond, despite surviving the end of the world as they knew it, and despite having to erase his twin along with the demon that had plagued him for years, Ford didn’t really think he truly understood what Lovecraft had been on about.

 

     At least...not until this very moment.

 

     Ford watched as time marched on, the sea of unfamiliar faces around him muddling together as though his thoughts were the pestle and the scene was a mortar, mixing it all into a sea of nondescript colors, shapes and sounds. His eyes were seeing, but somewhere along the line, the signals his retina were sending to his brain got lost in translation. Radio static. Half of a message. It was a sensation he’d grown accustomed to during his time Beyond; a condition he’d only read about during his studies a lifetime ago, but now seemed too real for his liking. He’d been practiced at controlling it as best he could by now, even if the facsimile of his control was so minute that it was nearly microscopic in nature. Especially now, it seemed. He’d tried over and over again to bring himself back; to set himself in the present by any means he could accomplish, but it all seemed much like bashing his skull against a wall for all the good it was doing. Ford took another sip from a water bottle at his side before setting it down again, opening and closing his palm. One, two, three, four, five, six. Over and over again he counted his fingers, flexing them as his eyes glanced over them but the terror simply wouldn’t go. His heart continued to hammer in its cage of bones and tissue, sending blood through his veins at breakneck speed.

 

      _Calm_ , he reminded himself over and over, measuring his breaths, _Remember, control your fear. It’s simple chemicals._ Ford took another breath, slow and steady before he exhaled again, closing his eyes as he leaned back into the solid surface of the building behind him. The world was slowly resetting itself, just as it always did after. When the panic subsided, he would be back, and he’d be in control again. He continued to breathe, listening as he heard the footfalls of people around him. The voices that came from them, words in a language he could only glean meaning from. He flexed his fingers again; one, two, three, four, five, six. The warmth of the sun above sent a heat across his skin, and he opened his eyes slowly, and the world reset itself again. Just as it should be.

 

     Ford heaved a heavy sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose between his eyes, trying to recall the trigger. He’d been upset when Stan left him, wanting to keep him close. He’d tried to follow, but soon lost him in the sea of unfamiliarity he’d found himself in and begrudgingly set to the task of finishing his half of the list. He recalled...it hadn’t been difficult to pick up the basics of the language after figuring out that it shared roots with English. His attempts at comprehension needed some practice, however, but he’d done what he’d set out to do and had the goods stowed away in the satchel across his shoulder. But on the way back, he’d...frozen. Ford opened his eyes and blinked at the brightness of the sun overhead, watching the air distort off of the tiles of the roof of the adjacent building as the heat soaked itself into the terracotta. He’d frozen. On his way back to the ship, he’d been stopped dead in his tracks as the world tunneled around him, like water down a drain. He’d been terrified at the sheer thought of going back.

 

      Another sigh escaped him as Ford stood from his position against the wall, patting the sides of his pants to shake off the dust that accumulated against the building and took another breath as the pang of anxiety tried to claw its way back up into his chest. He’d been afraid of going back to the Stan O’ War II. He still was because he knew what going back meant...and he still wasn’t ready. For the better part of two days, he’d been preparing himself mentally for the inevitability that came with what he had to do. But no matter how he’d tried to distance himself...he couldn’t bear the thought of the actual fallout that awaited him. He’d truly believed that he was ready. He thought that he could just...say his piece, admit to all he’d done and be ready for the separation that was sure to come. But the more and more he saw exactly what he’d been missing, the more and more the words he’d planned to say receded into his mind. He was being selfish, and he knew that. He wanted so desperately, more than anything to just let it go and to be done with it. However, he knew he couldn’t, and it ripped him to shreds. Stan had welcomed him with open arms, even after the less than warm welcome he’d greeted him with. Even after the near end of the world, even after erasing his mind, his twin had met him with nothing but compassion. The words he had to say, the words that he was trying to bury seemed all the more like a betrayal as a result. Stan hadn’t done anything wrong except trust him so willingly...And he knew that he wasn’t deserving of that trust anymore.

 

     Ford looked at his open palms as he held them out in front of him, his eyes focusing on the calloused patches that dotted his fingers. Gently he traced a thumb over the rough skin, feeling the pulse from beneath the surface. _Survival..._ he thought bitterly, feeling his stomach turn over in a wave of guilty nausea. He couldn’t deny that was the proper word that his actions deserved. But still, the weight of those actions didn’t become lighter simply because of the reason he’d done it. His hands had been used to do terrible things and were stained with blood of people who didn’t deserve to die, creatures who did not look like him but still had the ability to think and to feel. He’d taken lives in order to ensure that his went on, not because he wanted to but simply because that was called for. He loathed that part of his past and did all he could to move beyond it, but there was only so much he could do when the physical marks on his hands stayed when the blood had been washed away.

 

     Stan had trusted him, but he had trusted him without knowing the true magnitude of Ford’s past. His brother deserved to know the truth, but the fear of what was to come after nearly drove him back into the waiting torrent of his thoughts. Ford felt another wave of guilt rip through him as though he were made of tissue paper and brought a trembling hand up to his line of sight and watched as the quaking in his palms refused to cease. _Dammit…_ he thought to himself as he cupped the hand to his mouth to stifle a wave of nausea that churned his stomach like a vicious tide. He knew what he had to do. Stan deserved to know just how misplaced his trust was in him, all that faith and understanding and the willingness to try again, and how little Ford deserved it. He had to tell him...his brother deserved to know. He deserved to know that the brother he’d devoted thirty years to saving was a monster.

 

     He deserved to know what survival had meant. And Ford deserved the backlash it would have.

 

     Ford swallowed hard and he stood upright once more, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, allowing the world to call him back. The sounds of people and voices, footsteps all resettled and dragged him back to the world. No matter how terrified he was, he couldn’t stay. He couldn’t just let his fear whisk him away. He wasn’t going to back down, not when his brother deserved the truth. Slowly, mechanically, he urged his body forward and stepped out into the street once more. As he rejoined the sea of people that bustled about, he began to feel the final releases of his anxiety unclenching its claws from his form, the ephemeral fangs of a great and terrible beast that had finally let him free to wander into the waiting arms of numbness. He was resigned, and he knew there was no way out. The scenario he’d been preparing himself for for the past two days had come to the forefront of his mind, and Ford let it play out; Stan would listen to him. He hung on Ford’s every word like it was a lifeline, and when he’d hear of the deeds Ford had done in order to stay alive, he’d revile him. Ford wouldn’t blame him. He wasn’t exactly pleased with what it had meant either, but he’d still made the conscious choices. After his brother rejected him, Ford would do all the damage control he could, and he’d be ready for Stan’s response. He’d want to go back. He’d want to go home, and Ford would take him. After all, it’d be the least he could do...especially after everything. When Stan was back home, Ford would say his farewells and he’d be alone. Again.

 

     He supposed that that was equal payment for his crimes. He couldn’t just avoid them, could he? Ford looked up from the crowd of people in the distance and caught sight of the docks, and at the far end sat the familiar shape of their ship. When they’d first disembarked, the sheer sight of it was enough to make him and his brother into giddy twelve year olds again. But now, at the end of the thorofare, it seemed more like a waiting gallows. Ford paused, swallowing past the lump in his throat, looking back behind him at the clock tower at the opposite end of the market square. The hands told him that his time to stall was running out, and that the hour he and his brother had agreed upon was drawing to a close. Ford laughed once, bitterly resigned. He’d been foolish to think he’d deserved a second chance, and casting his gaze back to their ship. Automatically, as he’d done so many times before, Ford dug into his pocket and pulled gently on the worn edges of his treasured photo, looking down at the sunburned faces of their youth. They looked so happy back then. Like they belonged together. But the two of them had made decisions that lead them to this moment...mistakes they couldn’t take back. Ford grit his teeth as he felt his eyes begin to water, folding up the photo carefully and tucking it safely into the front pocket of his jeans. If he couldn’t take part in the real thing anymore...if his brother was beyond his reach…then he supposed that he’d have the memories.

 

     And that would have to be enough.

 

     His thoughts were interrupted when a bright flash of light brought him back to the present, causing him to squint and bring a hand up to shield his eyes from the glare. It passed quickly, but it gave him a jolt. His mind seemed to quiet as he squinted towards the horizon again. _Odd…_ he thought when the light from the waves didn’t produce the same effect. However, his thoughts were interrupted again as the flash passed his vision once more. Ford was sure then that the sea beyond wasn’t to blame. It was, after all, still at least a hundred or so meters from where he stood. No, the light had to be coming from another source. He’d seen this kind of tactic before; someone would use a reflective surface like that of a hand mirror to blind a target, while someone else would come to either pick his pocket, or holster a knife in his back. Ford furrowed his eyebrows, his body now set on edge. He looked around the opening of the market, scanning his eyes over the small clusters of locals and vendors at their stalls. Nothing seemed to catch his eye; no would-be pickpockets or other ne'er-do-wells ...at least not at first.

 

     He’d been right about the hand mirror. The light passed over his vision again, and Ford squinted against the brightness in order to pinpoint the source. At the edge of the market where the throngs of people were at their thinnest, there was one stall in particular that was indeed selling a variety of small vanity items. However, the would-be ne’er-do-well was not some street urchin, nor was it some clever assailant. Instead, at the forefront of the counter was his twin, turning a hand mirror over in his hand. Ford felt his anxiety bubble back up in an instant, his pulse jumping to irrational speed. Stan hadn’t even noticed him, his back turned and focused on the curious thing he turned over in his grip, and yet it already felt like his world was crumbling. Seeing his brother set the train of anxious thoughts back on the tracks, but he willed himself to push the feelings down. He’d made up his mind, and if he had any decency left, he’d follow through. Ford swallowed hard past the lump in his throat and began to shuffle forward towards his brother. But just as Ford was within twenty feet, Stan released his grip on the mirror and turned to walk away, continuing on his path towards the water. Ford quirked an eyebrow as he saw Stan take a small circular mirror from the edge of the counter, part of him feeling irritated at his twin’s sticky fingers. As he was ready to pick up the pace to join him, Stan turned a corner and disappeared down a small side street that led away from the path to the docks.

 

     Ford was confused for all of five seconds before his blood turned to ice.

 

     A man with dark hair emerged from the crowd, his eyes obscured by darkly tinted glasses, a black leather vest covering up his torso. On the back of the black leather an emblem stood out in bright embroidery, depicting a skull with a snake coiling in through the mouth, its head coming to peer out of the left eye-socket. The man followed behind his brother, and Ford watched frozen with terror as he rounded the same corner his brother had. Before the building obscured his view, Ford was able to catch the sheen of a polished hilt that peeked out from under the man’s vest near his belt, the wooden pommel continuing down to outline the deadly form of a sizable knife that sat nestled in a nylon pouch across the small of his back. No sooner had he caught the trace of the man that followed his brother, Ford had watched as the two of them rounded the same corner and disappeared from sight.

 

    _No_ , he thought as the world fell away from him in one fell swoop. He’d only caught a glimpse, but he was able to feel the meaning behind the mans intent. The world funneled out of his immediate thought as his senses honed the environment around him down into one pin prick motive.

 

_Stop him._

 

     Without another thought, Ford took off as fast as he could force himself to go. People around him shouted profanities at him as he shoved past them, but the sounds of their voices were merely a blip on his radar before they fell away. Unimportant. His eyes focused in on the darkened mouth of the side street as he rounded the corner, the tall walls of the buildings on either side throwing everything into shadow. Ford raked his eyes over the scene before him when he was unable to see where they went at first, nearly afraid that he’d lost them already, but his gaze snapped forward when he saw the trace edge of the man in black round a corner at the far end. Without a moment’s hesitation, Ford fell back into the breakneck sprint to keep after them. Shapes of people and homes flew by him with no meaning as he ran, weaving in and out of crowds and jumping around packs of chattering women and men in order to keep the man in black in his sight. He regretted not taking his firearm with him. Stanley had insisted on him keeping it back on their boat, much to Ford’s protesting. However, to make his brother happy, he’d agreed to keep his weapon locked away in its case while they were in port, and his compromise had made his twin smile.

 

     Now, however, he couldn’t keep the twitch in his hand to subside, and all he wanted to do was to put this bastard out of his misery. He was bound and determined to reach his brother before this man had any chance to pass him. He wouldn’t let it happen.

 

     As he ran down the side streets, he started to realize that despite his conviction, he was beginning to fall behind. He wasn’t sure of how he’d managed to remain one step behind after consistently keeping pace, but soon Ford saw less and less traces of the man in black until he’d inevitably lost the trail, rounding a corner to find himself in the middle of a residential district. When he whipped his head around, he was terrified to find that he couldn’t see hide or hair of the man in black, or his twin. He looked around desperately, eyes scanning over the unfamiliar buildings and streets around him with no luck, only meeting the gazes of a few confused locals. “Damn!” he swore loudly, raking his sweating palms through his wind tousled hair. He was at a loss, unsure of the direction he was even traveling anymore. Ford looked up and down the streets around him, but it seemed as though none of them seemed to hold any indication as to what way his brother had gone. Ford looked desperately down towards the path, but was unable to pick out anything meaningful from all the footprints left in the dirt. All the patterns lost their shape until they were unrecognizable. Ford cursed again under his breath, glancing around the street one more time and again coming up empty handed.

 

     Panic tore at him, his eyes beginning to lose focus around him. This wasn’t supposed to happen! He knew that losing his brother was in his future, but not like this. He was supposed to go back to the Stan O’ War II and confess to his brother that he was nothing but a murderer and Stan would go back home and be safe from all of this, dammit! Ford heaved in gulps of air as he felt a bead of sweat roll down his chin into the dirt below, the thirsty earth drinking it up right away. He’d failed. He’d failed to save his brother, twice now. He had no idea where Stan was and these damn streets were too confusing to catch hide or hair of anything meaningful. Ford growled to himself and screwed his eyes shut, beating back his own guilt until he was able to form a coherent thought. He hadn’t lost yet. He couldn’t have, but wasting time wallowing wasn’t exactly going to solve anything. _You can’t give up!_ He barked at himself as he heaved lungfuls of air in and out, his mind a cacophony of useless noise, _Think, **dammit** , think!_

 

     Ford looked around the city street once more. He wasn’t able to keep pace with them here on the ground. The streets that outlined the structure of the city were too tall and too tightly packed to be able to keep track of much of anything without it vanishing around some unseen corner. If he wanted to have any prayer of finding them, he’d have to get a better vantage point. Ford glanced around the open street, searching for the building that he could reasonably climb. Much to his dismay, none of the buildings in his immediate view held any immediate access to higher ground; no fire escapes, service ladders, not even a sturdy windowsill. Ford grit his teeth and looked around again. If he wasn’t able to use conventional means, he’d have to improvise. Against one of the buildings on the corner of the street, a pick-up truck had stopped next to a bar and held a large pile of wooden crates in the back. Following its path upward, Ford could make out the rusted form of a drainpipe that sat just so on the outer wall of the building and seemed to shoot vertically nearly up to the lip of the roof. About as good as he was going to get in this scenario, he figured. Ford readjusted his satchel across his shoulders, backing up slightly before getting a running start. He’d only have one shot at this, and he needed to do this perfectly. With practiced speed, Ford dashed forward and leapt into the bed of the pick-up, quickly righting himself so he could keep his momentum going. Stepping up onto the roof of the cab, leaping upwards and landing solidly on the drainpipe, wrapping his legs around the warmed metal. Once he was sure that it was stable enough to hold his weight, Ford hauled himself upwards inch by inch as high as his makeshift ladder would allow. The lip of the building was still a good four feet above his head, but he’d made greater leaps of faith with less time to plan them. Carefully, he shifted his weight and gripped the pipe between his thighs, squeezing it with as much strength and stability as possible before shimmying up until his fingers barely crested the top of the roof. Ford took one last breath before releasing his hold of the pipe, his feet planting themselves on either side and pushing himself up the final distance before his hands got a solid grip. Ford hoisted himself up onto the warm surface of the roof, standing as best he could before sweeping his gaze through the streets below.

     

     At first, Ford couldn’t see anything telltale, the expanses of the streets below filled with more unrecognizable and indistinct faces. He cursed under his breath again, sweeping his trained eyes over the crowds below over and over before finally he caught sight of exactly what he was looking for; about a good three blocks west, his eyes zeroed in on the dark red wool of a familiar cap. Ford felt his heart leap into his throat as he saw his brother enter into a wider vista beyond the streets to what seemed like a factory yard. Closing in fast, Ford could make out the figure of the man in black as he followed closer and closer. His brother was trying to ditch him, it seemed, but he was quickly running out of territory to shake his assailant. He’d have to work quickly if he was going to make it in time. Doing some quick assessments from his spot on the roof, Ford determined his next course before jumping down and scrabbling back down the drain pipe, grateful that it held before jumping down the final few feet into the street and taking off into a full sprint once more. He wove in and out of the alleys and streets, going over the course in his head and navigating accordingly, the people around him thinning out before they seemed to disappear completely. As the world flew by, Ford finally broke out from the cramped confines of the too-narrow city streets and into the larger open lane of a shipping and receiving yard of the factory yard he’d seen his brother enter. With no time to lose, Ford regained his pace despite the burning in his muscles begging him to stop.

 

     Tall silhouettes of the towering factory buildings cast the paths into shadow. He could barely make out two sets of fresh footprints in the dirt beneath him and he followed diligently, the path they took winding around the yard and back towards what seemed to be an employee entrance. He was getting close, he could practically feel it. He had to be. His brother was going to run out of places to run before long, as beyond this industrial block there seemed to be nothing but wilderness beyond that led to the highway. He had to hurry. But the sound of a truck engine roaring to life cut through his thoughts and Ford felt his veins freeze over when he heard not one, but three voices all coming from near where the sound of the engine resonated. Panic rose in him like an inferno when he was able to discern that none of them even sounded remotely like his brother, and willed himself to go faster for the love of all that’s holy before he’d even had time to process what those implications meant. The man in black wasn’t alone, and that spelled trouble for his brother. Stan was by no means weak, but he wouldn’t be able to hold off three opponents at once. As he rounded a corner to the other side of the building, Ford felt his heart all but stop. He’d found the point of origin for the sounds, but he was not met with the sight of his brother, but instead the taillights of a beat up pick up. Ford glared as he saw the taunting eyes of the man in black in the rearview mirror, the two associates each holding one arm of a slumped over figure between them.

 

     “STANLEY!”

 

     Desperately, Ford dashed forward, hands outstretched before the squealing of tires resonated off the buildings around him. A cloud of dust was thrown up into the air, obscuring his vision and causing him to stagger back. When Ford was able to open his eyes again, his stomach all but fell through him when he saw the red glare of the rear lights of the pick up disappear around a corner, the sound of the engine fading away until he was left in silence.

 

     As the dust finally settled, Ford fell to his knees. His eyes still lingered on the spot where the truck had disappeared, his hands trembling. Despite the warm sun and the sweat that rolled down his cheeks, he’d never felt more cold. He’d been too late. Stanley was gone…

 

     He’d failed him again.

 

     A sound tore out of his throat, a bellowing scream that tore up his vocal cords and bounced off of the walls around him that amplified it and sent it back to him. It barely sounded human to him, but despite that he continued to howl as the agony of his situation fell over him with the impact like that of a meteor. Stanley was gone. Stan was gone because he’d failed to save him. After everything his brother had sacrificed for him, he’d been unable to save him just this once, and now he was being taken to god knows where by men who meant him ill, and he couldn’t stop them. Every cell in his body seemed to mutually join in the effort to tear him apart. Ford doubled over pathetically in the street, his eyes watering while his heart shattered into a hundred thousand pieces in his chest. The shards of it seemed to thread their way between every single iota of space between his atoms. He was certain that he was in more pain than he’d ever felt as his fears closed around his racing mind like a vice grip, threatening to shatter the last remaining semblance of his sanity. Ford looked up to the sky; vast, blue, and endless and desperately wished that he could have stayed Beyond. If it meant his brother would still be here, if it meant that his brother continued to be safe and happy then he would have gladly given the rest of his life a long time ago.

 

     Ford felt the grief well up in him and spill over, tears flowing down his face as he stared up at the sky. He felt all too much and nothing all at once, and it killed him. He’d failed again. He’d failed to keep his family safe again, and now he was alone. He stared up at the sky, tears rolling down his cheeks and soaking into his sweater as he questioned whatever powers that seemed to be on why they would do such a thing. However, no matter how he cursed them, no matter how he glared and wept and begged for an answer, the sky gave no reply.

 

     He wasn’t sure how long he’d stayed like that; kneeling with hands clasped in his lap with his eyes aimed skyward before his body seemed to move automatically. Limply, Ford stood up, his legs burning with pain that he ignored as he turned to make his way back towards town. He didn’t really know what else to do. Stan was gone. He had no idea what to do, no facsimile of a notion on how he would continue, let alone explain things to the kids. As he passed the mouth of a closed alley, something flashed in the sun and caught his eye. Ford mechanically turned his head towards the glare, eyes unseeing and unfocused. A gust of torrid wind whipped through the street, howling through the closed walls of the small enclosed space before he caught sight of what it was.

 

     Laying in the alleyway next to a discarded paper bag, amongst the piles of trash and catching the glint of the sun, was a pair of all too familiar brass knuckles.

 

     A gasp escaped him as Ford’s heart lurched into motion and his brows nearly threatened to fly off his face before he was moving, nearly toppling over his own two feet in his effort to retrieve the object. As he reached the scene, Ford leaned over the sight and crouched down to pick up the warmed metal in his hands. On the outer rim, he found flecks of blood and part of him couldn’t help but smile. Even though he was cornered, his brother had still put up a fight. That was just like him, wasn’t it? Stanley was always the kind to continue forward, no matter how outnumbered he was or outmatched. Even when things seemed to be at their bleakest, as kids, his twin was always the one to urge him forward. Ford turned the brass knuckles over and over in his hands. His brother had always fought…

 

      _Always…._

 

     Ford gripped the brass knuckles in his hands, the force pressing their shape into his palm as he held them close to his chest. Wiping his eyes, Ford glared down at the flecks of blood that splattered the dirt below and he could feel the sorrow in him being burned away to be replaced by something that teetered on the edge of rage. How dare he sit there and accept defeat if his brother hadn’t. Hell, Stan was still in recovery mode from the Memory Event this morning. If his little brother could continue against all odds and fend off three men, then he could at least make the effort to try to save him. Ford swiftly shoved his brothers weapons into his pocket before he turned and left the alley, his mind turning on its heel as he began to mull over his options. He had to get him back. As far as he knew, the men who took him needed him alive it seemed, and that meant he still had time for now. But he knew that that time was limited; which meant he’d have to work quickly if Stan was going to have a chance. Ford recounted the path he had taken to get here, going through all the turns and reversing them so he could retrace his steps. He wasn’t going to give up. He at the very least owed his brother as much.

 

     Ford grit his teeth and set his jaw to a hard line. He knew what to do. He knew he could do it. During his time Beyond, Ford had turned tracking into a science, and he’d been on rescue missions with far less to go on than he did now. It would mean reawakening the side of him that he desperately wished had never come to be, but if it meant saving his brother then he’d let it back in with no regrets. But first, he was going to need a plan...

 

     And he’d need his gun.

____________________________________________________________________________

 

     

     The storm door that lead to the interior of the Stan O’ War II slammed open with force as Ford shoved it open. The sound that the metal made when it came into contact with the side of the table was deafening and the force was enough to send a cup full of pens at the far side of the table toppling over and spilling out onto the surface. Ford was too preoccupied with his current task to pay any heed to it as he removed the satchel from across his shoulders, tossing it on the wrap-around bench as he stormed over to the ship’s radio. Snatching up a pen from the tables surface on his way forward and ripping a sheet off the notepad that hung next to the radio, Ford began to sketch out the rough shape of the emblem that the man in black had worn on his back while it was still fresh in his mind. Once the basic gist of the shape had been marked down in angry black lines, Ford slammed down the pen and flipped the switch on the radio and turned the dial to set the frequency to the one Fiddleford had given him and grabbed the receiver. He was loyal to no particular gods, but in that moment he found himself praying to all the gods he’d ever heard of in hopes that this worked.

 

     “Fiddleford, are you there?” he asked into the receiver, listening for any small indication that his friend could even hear him from this far out. They had made some adjustments to the radio antenna to increase its range before he and Stan had left port, but when he’d asked Fiddleford about the actual technicalities of if it would work he’d only gotten a non committal ‘I reckon it should’. “Dammit,” he cursed to himself, “I should have tested this far before now…” Ford glowered and continued to turn the dial with intent, hoping beyond hope that this actually worked. Gravity Falls was over a thousand miles behind them, and just as he was ready for his prayers to go unanswered the static hiccuped once or twice before a familiar voice broke through the mess of white noise.

 

     “Stanford?” asked Fiddleford through the fuzz, his cheerful voice finally becoming clear once Ford had set the dial to the correct frequency and locked the transmission in place, “Well gosh a’mighty, it’s sure good ta hear from ya! Didn’t expect it ta be so soon-”

 

     Ford breathed a sigh of relief when the signal finally evened out, but he had no time to lose. For all he knew, time was shorter than he’d first anticipated and despite being glad to hear his former partner’s voice any other time, he had to forgo the pleasantries. Hastily he interrupted Fiddleford, his thumb pressing down hard on the button of the receiver, “Fiddleford, I need your help. Stan’s gone.” Ford struggled to get out, “Please. Tell me you’ve got some kind of information that I don’t.”

 

     There was a silence that stretched on between them, and then finally Fiddleford spoke. His voice cut through the silence, causing Ford to release a breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding . “Whad’ya mean Stan’s gone?” McGucket asked in a nervous tone, “Did he wander off or somethin’? I s’ppose it’s possiple given the stat a his mind, but memory lapses shouldn’t be settin’ in this long after the initial wipe…”

 

     Ford balked at the question and his thoughts faded back to nearly an hour prior, his mind replaying the image of tail lights disappearing into the distance. The sight of bloody brass knuckles in the dirt… Ford shook his head derisively, forcing himself back to reality. “No, Fiddleford, he was taken.” He lamented as panic seeped into his voice, his words coming faster than he could regulate, “I don’t know who they were or what they wanted, but I am sure they mean him harm. I tried to chase them down, but they always seemed to be one step ahead of me, and when I got there Stan was gone and now I have no-”

 

     “Stanford, I need ya ta settle down just a bit,” his friend said with a stern edge, stopping Ford dead in his tracks, “Yer sayin’ that some folks took Stanley and just made off with him? In broad daylight?”

 

     Despite his friends clear desire to help, Ford could feel the irritation rising in him like a tide. The rational part of him knew that Fiddleford was only attempting to understand, but that side of him was swept away in the current of his own agitation. “Yes!” he growled, “And they still have him! I need to know who, and more importantly where they are!” Ford pinched the bridge of his nose and shot up from his spot leaning over the counter where the radio was nestled and began to pace in the radius that the coiled cord that the transceiver allowed, “I ran after them! Tailed them all throughout this town and they still managed to outwit me. To outrun me! If I had my gun, I’d have taken care of them then and there, but now he’s gone and all I have to go on is the description of one man with nothing distinct aside from a sigil on his back! For all I know, it could be just one of many meaningless designs and Stan could already be…”

 

     The word that followed was too horrible to even think on, so Ford just let the incomplete sentence hang in the air like a noose. Silence again filled the air as Fiddleford gave him time to release his frustrations, but he wished he’d say something...anything. When the outburst had left him, seeping out of him like steam from a burst pipe, all that was left was fear. When he’d found the scene that had been left in the wake of his brother’s abduction, he’d thought that he could make it work. He’d been through worse, he’d thought. But when the evidence of just how hopeless it was seemed to haul off and hit him with a haymaker, he really saw just how bleak things were. What did he have to go on, after all? A sketch of a seemingly meaningless emblem and the description of one man. Hell, he hadn’t even gotten a good look at the license plate of the vehicle in his blind panic before it had taken off and been obscured in a cloud of dust. Ford drew a quivering breath inwards and felt his frame rock with it, his hand trembling as he pressed down the button on the transceiver once more.

 

     “What am I going to do?” He asked, the numbness from before beginning to bleed its way into him. “I can’t lose him, Fiddleford. Not after everything...please…” He didn’t even know what to ask for, but he had to believe McGucket knew. He had to, because the alternative was threatening to rip him apart from the inside out.

 

     “Now Stanford,” Fiddleford said in a tone that all but forced Ford to listen, “Yer not gonna lose ‘im. Them folks what took him took him alive, right? So, somethin’s tellin’ me that he’s still got plenty o’ time fer you ta git it in gear an’ stage a rescue.”

 

     While he had to appreciate his old friend’s optimism, Ford didn’t quite see where he was getting it from. Things suddenly seemed darker than they ever had. “How do you figure I do that?” he asked, his voice holding an edge of resignation that felt all too bitter.

 

     “Well, ya did say ya managed ta git a good look at this feller what took Stanley, didn’t ya?” asked the voice on the other end of the signal, “So I reckon we start there. What did this feller look like?”

 

     Ford heaved a steady breath into him, thankful that at least one of them had a shred of optimism. “Dark hair, tanned skin. I think given our current location, it’s safe to assume that he was latino in descent.” Ford hummed as he tried to focus on the man he’d seen in the market before he’d been blinded by the need to give chase, “He wore a black leather vest, like those bikers wear at that bar back in the Falls. It had an emblem embroidered on the back of it, some kind of sigil.”

 

     From the other end of the line, Ford could hear the ticking of keys as Fiddleford typed away, humming as he listened. “Yer in Mexico, I take it?” He asked as he continued to type, “Where abouts are ya?”

 

     “Some little town on the coast,” Ford answered, absently looking out the window at the waves that swelled against the horizon, “Coyuca de Benitez. Why? What are you doing?”

 

     A cheeky snicker came from the other end of the transmission gave Ford a moment of pause. “Well, since ya convinced me ta give over my blueprints to them government fella’s, I figured I’d push the envelope a tad and get my mitts on a little sneak peak into their database. Said it was fer research an’ all that hullabaloo, an’ they’ve paid it no mind. Well...not really. Now, le’s see what we got here...”

 

     Ford quirked an eyebrow in curiosity. Leave it to Fiddleford to find a way to presumably worm his way into the data of the central intelligence agency unopposed. At the very least, it could give him the edge he needed, and right now that was all that mattered. The sounds of plastic keys clacking came to a screeching halt in a short time however, and Ford heard his friend draw in a sharp breath of shock. Ford’s brow furrowed at the sudden silence, the dread that seemed to emanate on the other end of the line was near palpable and seeped into his skin through the speaker in his hand. Hastily, Ford slammed down the button of the transceiver. “Fiddleford?” he asked, stomping back over to the radio console. His eyes raked over the display, trying to see if he’d somehow jostled the signal but found that it was exactly as he’d left it. “McGucket, what’s going on? Talk to me!”

 

     “Stanford,” McGucket rasped out on the other end of the line, “You said this feller was wearing some kind o’ sigil on his back?” Instead of reassurance, Ford could hear the dread in his voice when he spoke again and the new edge to it sent his stomach tightening into knots. “It wasn’t a snake all coiled up in a skull, was it?”

 

     “Yes...it was.” Ford said slowly, deliberately as his eyes drifted downward towards his rough sketch. The snake seemingly glared up at him with its flat and slitted eyes, the black ink making it pop out in a way that nearly made it look alive. Ford tore his eyes away. “Why.” He demanded immediately, “What importance does the symbol have?.”

 

     “Stanford, I desp’rately wish it didn’t have one,” McGucket said gravely over the line, the sound of keys being pressed picking back up again, “An’ I reckon as soon as I tell ya, yer gonna wish the same. That sigil belongs to a local cartel, and they have a reputation fer bein’ as about as ruthless as they come. The snake n’ skull’s their callin’ card. That no good gang a’ drug dealers and smugglers picked up a foothold in that there town ‘bout fifty years ago. Started out as nuthin’ but a rowdy pack a’ street urchins who committed petty crimes, but now they operate under some fella who goes by the name ‘Matias Esquela’. Fancies himself as some kinda kingpin. Banded all these thugs and brawlers n’ turned ‘em inta soldiers who went on to build some kind o’ empire off’a the backs of the locals. Nasty bunch a’ business. Made millions on bleedin’ good people dry an’ keepin’ em corralled by keepin’ the local law in his pocket to boot.”

 

     As Fiddleford continued on with his narrative, Ford’s blood froze in his veins and numbed every part of him with dread like he’d never hoped to feel again. Flash images of worlds he’d left dimensions behind him came to the surface and perforated his grip on his self control like knives and bullets tearing through skin. He didn’t have much knowledge on how these kinds of groups operated here on earth, but he’d bet all the money in the multiverse that it was just as horrible as what he’d seen Beyond. People like these...they were true monsters. Killers and money hungry animals who’d murder or steal or do whatever they pleased so long as it turned a profit. He’d tangled with gangs like these before, but never in this particular circumstance. Back then he had been part of a group, all guns for hire who worked for the highest bidder.

 

     This time he was alone.

 

     But if it meant saving his brother, he’d tear his way through whatever or whoever necessary to do it. He’d done these kinds of things more times than he could stomach to count.

 

     Ford swallowed down his apprehension and set his jaw to a hard line. “Fiddleford, I need to know if you can find a local place these cretins frequent.” He managed through the wave that came over him. He was familiar with this scenario; asking about targets and locations, how many and where he could be expected to find them. It really was like accepting a job as a hired gun all over. “If I know the types of men who live that sort of lifestyle, I know that they have some kind of vice. Anywhere they could go to indulge in some kind of substance or less than...proper activity, then that’s where I’ll find them.”

 

     “Way ahead o’ ya, Stanford.” McGucket says with determination, the clacking of the keys on the other end of the line becoming even quicker. After a few moments of silence, clicking, and thoughtful self talk, McGucket lets out a triumphant “Aha!” that breaks Ford out of his thoughts. “Turns out there is a lil’ place them boys seem ta frequent. It’s a lil’ dive bar nestled back a ways called ‘La Milla Verde’. Seems like those boys have the bar as part a their territ’ry.”

 

     Ford hummed in acknowledgement. He’d figured as much. These seedy types always had some form of fix, something that focused on a carnal desire. If it wasn’t drugs or alcohol, it was chasing tail in brothels. Silence held out between them while Ford mulled over the new information, his thoughts entering an all too familiar pattern. If the local law was in the pocket of the cartel and the locals lived in fear, then he supposed he had no other options than to go it alone. It was almost funny in a way; for nearly all of his adult life, Ford had become partial to solitude and now he was nearly fearful of it. He wasn’t truly concerned with the fact that he was more than likely going to have to face an entire cartel alone. He’d had worse jobs. But the thought of his life continuing on if he were to fail…

 

     There were just some things that even he couldn’t stomach to think on for too long.

 

     “Thank you, Fiddleford,” Ford said in appreciative solemnity, “Without you, I really don’t think Stanley would have had a chance.” He had what he was looking for, and he knew what had to come next. There was no time to rekindle old flames of deeply rooted regrets, and now all that was left was to bite the proverbial bullet. “This is where I have to sign off. I can’t take anymore time than necessary.”

 

     As Ford stood straight from his position leaned over the counter, a stream of panicked half-syllables and indistinct noises erupted from the other end of the transmission before Fiddleford managed to get out a coherent sentence. “Stanford Pines, please tell me you ain’t goin’ in there alone!” he barked out in desperation, “Ya can’t just saunter on in there and expect ta come out like nothin’ happened! They’re killers!”

 

     Ford only half listened as he jotted down the name of the bar McGucket had given him and swiftly put it into his pocket. “I don’t truly have any other options, I’m afraid,” Ford relented, a sad smile crooking up the corner of his mouth, “You remembered to pack that kit I’d commissioned, right?”

 

     Pained muttering answered him before McGucket spoke, his voice weighing heavy with fearful sadness, “Yes, I sure did, but Stanford please!” he begged, “Don’t just go waltzin’ right on inta yer death! That won’t do no one no good, ya hear?!”

 

     Ford grimaced and screwed his eyes shut, waiting for Fiddleford to stop. He wished he had something to say, some kind of reassurance to give. But he feared that he would only raise more concerns if he’d told the truth; he’d been through far worse. So, with a guilty heart, he opted for the lesser evil of the middle ground. “I promise,” he lied through his teeth, “If it gets to be too much, I’ll reconsider my options and change the game plan. I’m no good to Stanley if I wind up dead.” Though, some part of him argued that he’d never been much good to him alive either. “I’ll send you a ring as soon as this is...over.”

 

     There was a sound akin to a whimper from the other end before the signal cut out, and Ford hung the receiver back on its holder. For a short while, Ford was lost in the static of the radio as his mind continued to mull over his next course of action. He dared to say that this had a shadow of a chance now that he wasn’t running blindly through a foreign city, all crazed with panic and with only a shred of an idea on what to do. However, he was going to waste precious time if he stayed any longer and his hesitation would only cost time that he wasn’t even sure Stanley had. The radio had no more answers to give, and now it was time to act.

 

     Briskly, Ford made his way down into their shared sleeping quarters and made a beeline for the closet.. When the boat was purchased, Ford and McGucket had come aboard without Stan’s knowledge to put in a secret compartment; a false back panel to the closet that opened into a small hiding space. Ford cleared the way, tossing shirts and other articles of clothing away, pausing when he came across the sash their great-niece had made Stan during the final leg of summer. Ford ran a thumb over the haphazardly stitched lettering and felt his heart fracture. He couldn’t even think about what would become of the kids if they were to receive news that Ford had failed and that Stan wasn’t coming home, but he quickly pushed those thoughts out of his mind and laid the sash out on the bottom bunk with care. Stan was a hero, alright. And right now, a poor imitation had to do his best to bring him home.

 

     With practiced fingers, Ford traced the inner frame of the closet, feeling around its edge until his forefinger brushed against the cool round metal of a release switch. Pressing it caused the small section of the back panel to peel away from the rest of the wall; opening on a hinge to reveal an object that Ford hated to look directly at. To anyone passing by it would look like an unassuming metal briefcase; shut tight with a simple combination lock and held firmly closed by two clip locks on either side of the topmost edge that framed the handle. To Ford, it looked more like the ultimate surrender of the self he tried to become. With a shaking hand, Ford grasped the handle and drew the metal case out of the wall, nearly dropping it as though it burned him to hold it. Ford held fast despite his growing anxiety, bringing it over to the desk that sat on the opposite wall and laying it down right side up. The sound of the contents that jostled about inside made him shudder.

 

     Ford reached out one shaking hand towards the combination wheel, but withdrew it on instinct. He didn’t want to touch it, the small thing seeming more and more like a Pandora’s Box by the passing second. _Stan’s time is limited,_ he reminded himself chidingly, _it does no good to try to run from it now._ With a deep breath, Ford moved his hands in closer once again, his fingers dialing in the combination with ease. There’s no need to try to search his memory for the numbers, as the entire reason he was even touching this case at all was reminder enough.

 

      _615_

 

     Popping open the clasps on either side after the telltale click of the lock releasing, Ford opened the case wide to reveal the kit contained inside. Black gloves, tailor made to accommodate his unique grip. Next to it lay a brown leather holster that crossed over his shoulders and was designed to be fastened at the chest. A set of five steel throwing knives neatly tucked into a small nylon pouch, each of them weighted perfectly to be effective in their purpose. At the top of the case was strapped a thin, long needle-like dagger that went into a custom holster in his boot. Beside the other nylon pouch lay another, larger by a fair bit and made to hold ammunition.

 

     And there, laid out in the very center of the case and surrounded by the other items like some morbid halo, lay the gun.

 

     Ford picked up the weapon in the center spot of the case, holding the custom gun in his hands. The scientist side of him had to admit that it was a thing of wonder, having only ever seen the blueprints. On the outside, it looked like a standard Colt Delta Elite ten millimeter handgun. However, the inner workings of the gun had been reworked from the inside out. The grip of the gun had been extended not only to account for his extra finger, but the extra space allowed room for a small but powerful battery that charged the weapon’s ammunition once the trigger was pulled. The ammunition had been changed as well to account for the new addition to the weapon; now built for firing copper-plated rounds that carried the charge from the battery to the intended target, packing 100 milliamps of electricity. Enough to stun the target as well as to burn hot enough to cauterize any entry wound so long as he didn’t aim for any major arteries or vital organs. Finally, some adjustments had been made to the barrel and the frame to optimize the accuracy as much as was possible.

   

    It was efficient, powerful and a formidable tool in the hands of a capable marksman. Luckily, Ford had plenty of times to hone his skills while Beyond...and yet however fascinating the gun was, there was still that part of him that absolutely hated how well it fit in his palm. Comfortable, form-fitted, custom made to fit his grip. Almost like it belonged in his hand. It made him sick to his core. If he managed to find Stan alive, and if he managed to save him in time, then he’d be outed for being the monster that he was. There would be no room to deny the hard facts when Stan saw him holding such a thing with the familiarity he had under his belt, and that would be the end of it. Stan would know that his time separated from this dimension wasn’t all just aimless wandering and sightseeing in other worlds. It wasn’t all exploration under the guise of the noble purpose of eliminating Bill Cipher for good. He’d know the ugly, horrible and bloody truth. He’d know that his brother was a murderer, no matter how many different ways he tried to justify or rename it to make it sound less disgusting than it was. The rattling of the gun’s frame in his hand drew him back to reality and his eyes focused in on his palm to see that his whole body was quaking with the aftershocks of anxiety, the painful memories rending his composure to shreds. As collected as he could possibly be, Ford took a deep breath when he could feel the acid rising in his throat, forcing himself to be calm. Stan’s life was on the line this time, and he couldn’t afford the crisis of conscience right now, nor did he have time for any other guilt he harbored.

     

     He’d rather have Stan alive and well. He’d rather have him know the truth than to subject him to whatever it was the men who held him captive had planned for him. He’d rather be reviled as a monster than to be thought of as a good man. And if that meant that Ford would have to reignite the flame that fueled the most wretched and terrible side of him in order to make sure his brother was returned safely, then it was a price he was willing to pay as many times over as need be.

     

     With a final breath, Ford forced his nerves to fall into their lax and practiced state that he’d grown accustomed to when he was faced with these kinds of things. _Kill or be killed_ he reminded himself on repeat until a blanket of grey fell over his mind and blocked out everything else. It was a numbness that had comforted him at one time, and now he drew it up from its depths to aid him once more. His hands seemed to move automatically, setting the gun down in the case to roll up his sleeves past the burn scars on his wrists and slip on the gloves at their side. Next, the holster. Threading his arms through the allowed space, he drew the clasp around his chest to settle beneath his pectoral muscles, the fastener sliding home with a click. Once it was secure, he slid his firearm into the awaiting pocket that rested on his right side, just below his arm. The ammo pouch and the one that contained the set of throwing knives fastened neatly to his belt, after which the long knife was masterfully tucked away in his left boot along the outer side of his ankle. He was pleased to see that the hilt was invisible to those who didn’t know what they were looking for.

     

     The case sat empty on the desk, its yawning jaws open to show that nothing remained inside. Ford hastily walked away from it, not even bothering to close it shut. Making his way down the narrow hall towards the door, Ford grabbed his navy blue windbreaker from the back of the booth and slipped it on over his frame, rolling up the sleeves before sliding the zipper home. With one hand resting on the door handle, Ford paused for the briefest of moments, his body abuzz with a dull thrill that he hated. That killer instinct that seemed to cling to him like a second skin. Careful hands dug into his front pocket on his jeans, even gloved his fingers found the edges of the photograph with ease. He unfolded it with one hand, fingers glancing over the younger image of his brother. The sight grounded him in a way. He wasn’t doing this for the money, nor was he under contract. Instead, this time he was under an oath that couldn’t be broken. An unspoken bond that had been with him since the moment he was born.

 

     The need to protect his family.

 

     If his killer instincts could be put to anything, then he supposed there was no more noble cause than this one. “I won’t be too late this time, Stanley,” he murmured to the image in a solemn promise, “I will be there this time, no matter what. You’re going to come home.”

 

     Folding the photo up carefully and stowing it away for the second time today, Ford pushed the door that leads to the deck open and into the wash of sunlight that waited beyond. As he tread down the docks and back into the sea of unfamiliar buildings and faces, his face set into a mask of quiet determination. No matter what, he was going to bring his twin brother home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am really sorry this chapter took a hundred-billion years to write and post, but I really hope you enjoy this next one. Thank you guys for being so patient!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even before the incident in the alleyway, Mexico held nothing but trouble for Stan.

_It was odd how nostalgia had a way of creeping up on Stan when he’d least expect it. He had no way to predict it, it seemed, which bothered the everloving shit out of him. One moment he’d be hunkered in the back seat of the Stanmobile and he’d catch a glimpse of one of the few constellations he knew outside his window, and soon he’d find himself following the invisible lines that connected its stars. Instantly, he’d be back in a memory of when he was twelve. A little boy with the same face as his huddled elbow to elbow with him as they perched at their window, watching through the dirty glass as the stars twinkled into view one by one and whispering to one another about bygone dreams._

_Some days he’d be walking through a store, snagging anything that was small enough to carry and he’d see a mother walking along with her kids. One of them would be leading the other through the store, poking and prodding at anything that remotely caught their interest while the mother struggled to get them to stay within eyesight. It reminded him if the summers in Jersey when his folks would go down to temple and their ma would have to all but wrangle them into the pews during the service. He was guilty as charged when his Pa accused him of being the one to start trouble...most of the time, he was right on the money._

_Tonight, of all nights, it had found him once again. It crept up on him where he stood, leaned up against the door of his car in the middle of a poorly kept parking lot somewhere in the dead center of Mexico. An old street light buzzed with electricity up above him as he lit a smoke, inhaling deeply. He’d cracked the window of the driver’s door so he could half-listen to the radio while he smoked, a poor attempt to settle his nerves. As he watched the greying wisps of smoke rise into the night air, counting his breaths and letting his mind wander, the song switched over to the next one in the set. The soft piano keys seemed so familiar. His heart skipped a beat._

_‘Summertime.’ The song on the radio reminded him of his mom._

_Even though the sound was muffled and soft as it slowly drifted out of the cracked drivers side window, he could practically hear his Ma humming gently along beside him in the dark. And again, like tradition, he was back in that small apartment above the shop. He remembered listening from the stairs as she hummed along to the tune. He used to catch her singing along to the words whenever the song would break through the static of their beat-up radio. Whether she was vacuuming or cooking in the kitchen, she’d hum it to herself to fill the silence. She always did have such a good singing voice; that kind that wasn’t exactly celebrity-worthy, but it was warm and wholesome to bring comfort to anyone who could hear. When he was sad, he remembered her holding him close on his bed and gently stroking his hair. She used to wipe away his tears with the hem of her skirt as she started to sing, her voice hushed and calm like she was singing a lullaby._

_‘Summertime, and the livin’ is easy,_   
_Fish are jumpin’ and the cotton is high,_   
_Your daddy’s rich, and your ma is good lookin’,_   
_So hush little baby, baby don’t you cry,’_

_He even remembered singing along with her one night while helping with the dishes. He’d fumbled up the words and gone beet red when he tried to explain how he’d only really known the words based on what she’d sung him. He remembered how she ruffled his hair and gave him that warm, motherly smile. He remembered how the suds clinging to her fingers got all caught in his hair. How the two of them had laughed together, there in that cramped apartment... It was funny how even though it had been nearly seven years since leaving home, the memory still clung to him._

_‘But memories were just that and nothing more.’_

_Near instantly, the feelings of warm nostalgia was gone and instead a feeling of icy bitter anger took its place. The simpler times of his youth were long gone, and he was stuck hundreds of miles away from home. Alone. As the memory began to slip away, the feeling had taken its time filling up his guts and causing his eyes to sting. He tried to convince himself that the smoke rolling from the cigarette between his lips was the cause, that a night breeze had blown it back at him, but Stan still opened the door to the El Diablo and turned the radio off with a turn of the dial regardless. He could lie to the world, but he couldn’t lie to himself. After slamming the door shut and locking up the car, Stan tucked his keys into the front pocket of his jeans before leaning against the passenger door once more._

_Stan clenched and unclenched his fists in his pockets over and over again, trying to get the sudden waterworks to die down. Even after seven years he still couldn’t let it go, could he? That time was far, far behind him now and he still couldn’t just cut his losses when it came to Jersey. When it came to home. There was nothing left for him there, and even if there was he wasn’t going back empty handed. He couldn’t. It had been made pretty explicitly clear when Pa had told him to make himself scarce until he could come up with the supposed ‘fortune’ he believed he’d make off of his brother._

_He wasn’t welcome. If he went back now; a penniless vagabond with no claim to fame, he’d probably be leaving with less than what he’d had the first time around._

_‘Tonight of all nights…’ He thought bitterly, ‘No use gettin’ all worked up. Not now.’_

_Clearly his folks weren’t... Sure, he’d tried to call his mom every now and again, and she’d all but begged him to come home. To come back to Jersey. She told him how his father and her had split, how he was welcome to come back to her and his little brother. Damn him if that didn’t sound nice. But he always had some lie ready; telling her how he was doing alright. Telling her that he’d struck it big and would have the money in no time flat, and she’d just have to be patient a little while longer. Stan had given her the run-around on all of her questions; yes he was eating alright, yes he was staying out of trouble. Yes he was safe and had a place to stay. He told her he didn’t want to come home yet. He figured if she’d cared that much, he wouldn’t be where he was now._

_He’d be lying if he’d said he hadn’t thought about going back before. About just admitting that his father was right, and how he was nothing but a screw up... He’d thought about it after the first time he’d been mugged by some street thugs who had made off with the rest of his cash the first year he’d been without a home, right after his latest scam had tanked. He’d thought about it four winters ago on a dirty street in Detroit, when he was starving and had nothing to keep him warm but his car and a tattered sheet he’d swiped from a clothes line four states ago. He’d thought about how badly he’d wanted to after his first month in prison, about how he wanted nothing more than to just call his mom and admit everything to her. How he’d struggled. How he’d been beaten and bruised and left for dead so many times... But somewhere along the line, he’d stopped thinking about home altogether. He wasn’t sure when, but over the years the thought occurred less and less, or he’d remind himself that he didn’t really have a home left to go to. How he’d cost his family enough, and that it was better for everyone if he’d just stayed away. He’d made a mistake and this was his sentence. He’d lost everything; his home, his family..._

_His best friend._

_On instinct, Stan forcefully wrapped his hands around the sharp edge of his car keys, the sting bringing him back to the present. ‘No.’ he thought to himself, ‘NO way. NOT tonight.’ He gripped the keys in his palm tighter and tighter, hissing to himself as the sharp edge of the car key bit into his skin. That was not a can o’ worms he needed to bust into right now. He was already doing what he’d been bid; make up for the mistake. Atone like all the religions told him to do. Be the man his Pa wanted him to be, and fix the problems he had made._

_He was a man now, and men didn’t run from their mistakes._

_Stan sighed as he let his palm relax its death grip on the keys. Slowly he let his fingers unfurl from their hold on the warmed metal, finally dropping the set to the bottom of his pocket and removing his hand from his jeans. If he could, he was gonna fix this. He had to at least try, Stan took a deep breath inward and burned away the last of the cigarette between his teeth. The final puff of smoke from his cigarette rolled off of his tongue and he watched it get whisked away by the night breeze before dropping it on the ground and crushing it beneath his bootheel. Stan took a deep breath and let it out in one angry huff. He didn’t have time to be wasting his energy on things that were gone. He couldn’t just let his mind run away with him. If he wanted to eat tonight, he’d have to get some cash. If he wanted to get cash, he’d have to work to get it._

_“Alright, enough stallin’,” he huffed to himself. Stan stood up from his spot leaning against the car door and flung the hood of his jacket over his head, walking around the front of his car and crossing the parking lot._

_Stan thought the place looked unassuming enough. Some bar on a shitty street corner in the middle of a rundown town. He’d seen a hundred other places like it. But whereas he’d usually head to one of these joints to get a drink to drown his sorrows or to bet on a game of snooker, this one in particular had caught his eye. He’d seen flyers for this dingy little bar a few miles back while stopping at a gas station the town over. Apparently, they were hosting some kind of amateurs fight club. Anyone who managed to win in a one on one with the local champ would walk away a thousand pesos richer. He’d taken it from the corkboard by the maps near the bathrooms on a whim, just in case his attempts to snag something to eat for free went awry. When he’d gone up to pay for gas, he’d asked the cashier about it. From what he’d heard from the guy behind the till, these matches were usually unregulated; an anything goes kind of deal. Lots of people had tried and failed to beat the reigning champ. Apparently tons of folks had lined up at first, what with the promise of that much cold hard cash. However, from what the guy told him, most people either walked away with life-altering injuries or they didn’t walk away at all. This ‘reigning champ’ was more of a monster than a fighter. When he’d asked about the cops doing anything, the cashier went a little pale, saying how police in that town didn’t do much to fight against that kind of shit... but he’d brushed it off after a brief moment. He figured the guy was just blowing smoke. After all, he wasn't the first jackass trying to spook some poor tourist. Stan had thanked the guy regardless, and decided to take a chance. A man in his position didn't exactly have the benefit of being choosy with how he turned a buck, and if there was one thing Stan could do, it was fight._

_He supposed if he could thank his old man for one thing, it was insisting on the boxing lessons._

_As he approached the side door of the bar and even from feet away, Stan could hear the roar of people’s voices as they all cried out in unison. Excited cheering that faded into tense silence before picking up again, all chanting in Spanish about victories and something about blood. About how ‘that guy’ didn’t even stand a chance. There was the sound of something heavy hitting the floor and the dinging of a bell before one man spoke above the rest. It sounded like his voice came from a speaker. There was the sound of cheering again after the announcer had quieted his spiel, and Stan could make out the sound of something being dragged across the floor underneath the roar of voices and applause. Well...that wasn’t good. For the briefest of moments, Stan considered turning back, trying to convince himself that it wasn’t so bad to go without gas money for the moment. About how another night of going hungry wasn’t the end of the world...but he couldn’t exactly afford to take that chance. A thousand pesos was good money, enough to keep him going for a while if he played his cards right. No sense in turning tail when he’d come this far._

_Stan steeled himself, taking a hearty breath inward as he shoved open the door._

_The smell of alcohol and cigarette smoke hit his senses all at once, and the muffled sound of the cheers reached bolder volume as he took his first step inward. The entire joint was packed wall to wall with people, all with drinks in their hands, all their eyes turned towards the center of the floor. There were men who were young and old who waved their hats about in excitement, and others who had their heads in their hands in frustration. There were women dressed barely in anything at all who passed between the gaps of people, their faces painted brightly in what was decidedly too much makeup, all of them wandering around to different tables to present their ‘services’. The bar was packed full all around its edge as well, the bartender struggling to pour shot after shot before passing them down the smooth wooden surface to waiting hands of patrons. And there, in the center of it all, was a chain-link style cage that served as the impromptu ring._

_Inside the confines of the ring, a hefty man in a dark red shirt was holding the arm of a much taller guy with dark and wild eyes. Zero guesses as to which one was the ‘champ’. His teeth were bloody as he smiled wickedly and turned to look at the crowds of cheering patrons. The announcer spoke into a microphone in his hand, excitedly running over the play-by-play of the match that had just come to an end. The guy had won in a mere two and a half minutes (Jesus Christ), and the challenger had only managed to land a single hit at the beginning of the round that left the champ with a split lip. If that wasn’t a tad worrying, Stan didn’t know what was. He’d never heard of a match where the contender had only managed to land a single blow before a total knock-out. He’d have to be extra careful in the ring if he wanted to win...or to leave with most of his bones unbroken._

_Stan pushed his way through the crowd of people towards the bar, wedging himself between some guy who’d passed out halfway through his drink and a couple perched on one bar stool who seemed to be getting far too intimate for a public place. Despite the noise, the smell of liquor and the distinct smell of cigar smoke, here was part of him that liked this kind of atmosphere. Places like this was where sinners and underdogs could go to drown their sorrows and to meet more of their kind. To get away from the world and to throw their masks away and to give in to their vices. He admired that in a way, but he wasn’t exactly here to be part of the crowd. He was here to work. If he actually managed to make it out of the ring the victor, then he could celebrate. Squaring up his shoulders and puffing out his chest, Stan leaned over the counter and waved the bartender over._

_“What’s your poison, buddy?” Asked the young man in Spanish. “Don’t get many of you Americans in this part of Mexico. Don’t really know why you’d come here of all places.”_

_Stan smirked, “Not here ta drink, pal. Can’t say there’s many bars that offer a chance to snag a thousand pesos,” he shot back, “How’s a fella like me sign up fer the ring?”_

_To Stan’s surprise, instead of answering his question, the bartender tilted his head back and laughed like he’d just heard the best joke ever told. Stan cocked an eyebrow at the outburst. Had he said something wrong? He was pretty new to the language, but was pretty sure he’d said what he meant to say. Just as it looked like the guy was actually gonna stop his cackling, he got another look at Stan and the whole process started all over again. Stan grit his teeth in annoyance. “Somethin’ funny?” he asked, letting his impatience slip into his voice, “I’m a fella who can appreciate a good joke, but I don’t exactly get the punchline.”_

_The bartender held his stomach before meeting Stan’s annoyed gaze, wiping away a tear before speaking. “You’ll have to excuse me for laughing, sir,” he said through his remaining chuckles, “But you have to be kidding. You? Against him?”_

_And just like that, the chuckles slipped right back in. ‘Well, this is getting old.’ Stan took a breath before fixing the bartender with a humorless smirk. “That’s what I said, pal. Did I stutter?”_

_It was either the tone of his voice or his expression, but either way he finally started to get his message across. The bartender started to chuckle less and less until the smile fell from his face completely. “Sir,” the guy started out, keeping his voice hushed as he leaned forward, “I can’t tell if you’re just plain stupid or if you’ve got a death wish, but you can’t seriously want to fight against Raymond. Did you not hear the announcer?”_

_Stan stroked his chin as if he were deep in thought, “Raymond…” he hummed aloud, “He about six foot five?” Stan asked, reaching his hand up into the air as far as he could to mock measuring height, “Standing in that ring right over there? I hear the last poor sap ta fight him only landed a single punch? If so, then yes, I’m dead serious.”_

_The bartender narrowed his eyes, giving him a once over before he fixed Stan with an unimpressed look, “Real funny guy, huh? Look, if you wanna hop into the ring with that guy,” the bartender gestured by jerking a thumb towards the towering figure in the ring, “I won’t stop you. Just let me repeat that you’re either the dumbest white boy to ever wander his way here, or you’ve got the most gruesome death wish ever heard of. Raymond is a monster, buddy. He’d kill you just as soon as he’d look at you.”_

_Stan had to chuckle at that despite the nerves. He had to admit that the whole idea was starting to sound less appealing by the moment, but he stood firm. “Believe me, pal, I ain’t plannin’ on dyin’ til I’m old an’ grey. I know what I’m doin’.”_

_The two of them held one another's gaze for what was a tense moment, but Stan kept his shoulders squared and his posture lax. Let the guy assume the worst, Stan wasn’t gonna just back down because of tough odds. He had gotten through way worse than just one big bad dude. He’d been cornered plenty of times by gutless punks who made a habit of jumping poor, lone folk who wandered too late at night and still managed to come out on top. He’d trashed people who fought dirty, hiding knives or guns in their pockets or blindsiding him with bricks and bottles. Hell, he didn’t chew his way through the trunk of a car just for some joe to laugh in his face and tell him he didn’t stand a chance. His Pa had made sure he had the groundwork to fight back, but over the years he had honed those skills all on his own. He was probably tougher and meaner than his Pa ever imagined he could get, and damn if that didn’t make him proud._

_One chump wasn’t gonna stand in his way._

_After a few moments of silence longer, the bartender shook his head in resignation. “Your funeral, buddy.” He muttered, shrugging, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Stan watched as the guy walked over to the wall to grab a battered clipboard from its place propped up on a loose nail. The thing looked old and worn, but the pages themselves were pristine and mostly blank. ‘Odd…’ When he made his way back over to the bartop, he placed the clipboard on the surface and snatched up a pen from his pocket and began to write. “Name?”_

_‘Give an alias,’ Stan reminded himself on instinct. “Andrew.” he lied easily._

_The bartender looked up at Stan from the clipboard, “Full name.” He corrected. “When we drag your carcass outta here, we gotta put something on a tombstone.”_

_Huh...that didn’t sound assuring. This guy seemed dead serious, which only made alarm bells go off in his head. “Andrew Alcatraz.” He amended swiftly after a moment. “Tombstone?” he asked out morbid curiosity. At first he had brushed off the cashier earlier today when he’d told Stan that this ‘champion’ guy was a killer. But now the bartender was saying the same thing. He was a suspicious guy, but he’d come to be a firm believer in the whole ‘where there’s smoke, there’s fire’ thing._

_The bartender ignored him and just continued to write down the fake name, only raising his head to answer Stan’s question after he’d finished. His expression seemed bored in a way. Dismissive almost. When Stan continued to stare at him, he simply shrugged again. “I tried to warn you, man.” When he turned around, Stan watched him round the edge of the bar and push past the drunks and onlookers towards the ring._

_Stan watched in hesitant anticipation as the man waved the announcer over. The heavy guy leaned close to the chain link fence and examined clipboard that was offered to him. At first it looked like the man was laughing, but when the bartender continued to insist that he was serious, Stan could see the expression on his wrinkled face drop in half a second. He seemed shocked to say the least, and Stan watched in amusement as he looked from the reigning champ and back to the bartender in astonishment. Despite his reservations, Stan had to smirk at that; the announcer definitely didn’t expect someone else to challenge the big guy after how the previous round went. Honestly, he couldn’t blame him, thinking back to what the announcer had said...He’d seen plenty of boxing matches over the years, but he’d never heard of a round where the contender had only managed to land a single hit before a TKO. Sure, that kind of thing wasn’t unheard of, but he couldn’t think of a match he’d seen that had gone that way. It was a bit troubling to say the least. Not to mention what the bartender and the guy at the gas station had said. For a split second he considered running out the door and not looking back...but he needed this. If he was gonna make it back to the states, he needed gas. He couldn’t risk stealing it. the less the cops caught onto his ‘activities’, the better. He had very few options left._

_If he didn’t win, then he was as good as dead, and if he tried to make it without cash...he was probably as good as dead anyhow. He had been to prison in two countries so far, and he wasn’t too keen on the idea of making it a third. The announcer’s voice rang out through the speakers, cutting his thoughts off before they managed to drag him down into his mounting anxiety._

_“L-ladies and gentleman!” he said after a brief pause, “It appears that tonight’s entertainment isn’t over! We have a new challenger who wants to try his luck against Rabid Raymond!”_

_‘Well, that’s a cheesy name…’ Stan scoffed to himself._

_It took him a moment to notice that the entire bar had gone silent around him; everyone seemed to stop whatever it was that they were doing to turn to look at the center of the floor in curiosity. Sure, it was cheesy to him, but to these folks it must have been near unheard of. Even the couple next to him stopped their exchanging of kisses to look directly into the ring, their eyes wide with shock. Stan had accomplished many seemingly impossible things in his time since leaving home, but he couldn’t recall a time when he’d managed to render an entire bar silent on a Saturday night. Suffice it to say, despite the unease that built up in his gut, he couldn’t help but feel at least a little proud._

_“I’m just as speechless as you, my good people!” The announcer agreed, looking all around him at the stunned faces that blankly looked back, “After the last round, it’s a wonder that anyone would be willing to go one on one with Raymond! But we do indeed have a challenger! But who could it be, you ask? A crazy man? Or simply a hapless fool?”_

_“Fool, huh?” Stan muttered under his breath, narrowing his eyes at the stout announcer. He was starting to lose patience, fists clenching on reflex._

_“Regardless of his motives, let’s give this brave and stupid soul a proper sendoff! Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome Andrew ‘8-Ball’ Alcatraz!”_

_Okay, now this guy was starting to irk him. Not only was he slinging insults, but that had to be the dumbest name he’d ever heard of. “What?” Stan asked aloud in Spanish, “‘8-Ball’? Seriously? And here I thought that ‘Rabid Raymond’ was as lame as it got, but man... ya proved me wrong, Jack.”_

_There was a sudden silence as all eyes turned to him. The announcer simply grinned in amusement as Raymond narrowed his gaze next to him. “Please welcome this fearless newcomer! Sure, he doesn’t look like much, but he deserves to be commended for his bravery!” Stan froze, looking at the hate-filled eyes of ‘Rabid Raymond’, realizing too little too late that he’d said that a bit too loud. ‘Welp, way ta go, Stan,’ he thought as he scrubbed a hand over his face, ‘Way ta piss off the competition before the round even starts.’_

_The eyes of fifty-odd stunned bar goers were staring directly at him. Some of them had to turn all the way around in their seat, some paused midway through a drink and spilled it all over their shirts. For the first time in a long time, all eyes were on him. And, for a moment, it felt great...before the laughter started. Stan listened in exasperation as the men and women continued to heckle him, spitting out their disbelief._

_“That guy?! NO way!!”_

_“What is he, stupid? Someone better call the doctor.”_

_“He looks like a bum!”_

_“I give him five minutes before Raymond takes his head off.”_

_Stan could feel the anger that seeped into him, grinding his teeth together as the laughter continued. He could hear the voices all around him reach a new height, and the anxiety that had sat at the bottom of his gut was quickly burned away by the rage that filled him up. He hated that; the judgement of others, the scorn that people so readily greeted him with. He’d thought that by now he’d gotten used to such comments, but he supposed not. ‘That’s what’cha get fer openin’ yer mouth…’ Stan closed his eyes and tried his best to drown out the voices that echoed through the building. ‘Don’t matter. Let ‘em laugh.’_

_Stan reached into his back pocket, taking out the rolls of gauze he’s tucked inside when he’d pulled into the parking lot and setting them on the bartop. Shrugged off his jacket, ignoring the voices that continued to jeer at him, he picked up one of the bundles and got to work. He unrolled the first roll of gauze, placing the end of the wrapping in the center of his right palm and held it in place with his thumb. Winding the rest of the cotton wrap around the peaks of his knuckles and back down to wrap around his forearm, he tied it off right below the heel of his palm, just above the pulse in his wrist. Once he was sure that the knot was secure, Stan flexed his fist to test how tight it felt when his palm was completely closed. ‘Not too tight, not too loose,’ just like he’d been taught all those years ago. He remembered how his coach had to show him how to do it properly over and over again, making Stan wrap and re-wrap his hands so many times that it was practically hammered into his brain when he’d finally got it. He remembered how proud he was back then...how even when he didn't have his coach with him, his Ma would always help him make sure he’d done it right. And even if his Ma was busy, he could always turn to…_

_Stan grit his teeth as he finished wrapping the last part of the gauze around his left wrist, tying it off with a sharp tug. ‘Not now,’ he growled inwardly, ‘Focus. Win the fight, get the cash, get outta dodge.’ With a final deep breath Stan was able to force the memories into the back of his mind, replacing them with his lessons from years ago at the forefront. It’d been a while since he’s had to fight his way out of a tough spot, but he knew he could do it. He just had to focus._

_“We’re waiting!” called the announcer, renewing the chuckles of the people in the bar, “I don’t know if that’ll help you, but by all means!”_

_“Yeah, yeah,” Stan shouted back dismissively, “Keep yer shirt on, gramps.”_

_Stan walked away from the bar and through the crowds of people and towards the center of the floor, finally taking in the whole of the impromptu boxing ring. The whole thing was made up of your run of the mill chain link fence, the height of which stretched from floor to ceiling. The confines of the ring itself was made up of a space about six feet by six feet, the only opening being a gate on the right side. As he approached the door, Stan noticed a heavy chain that held a padlock on one end that was draped over the solid posts that made up the doorframe, the entire length only about five or six feet. Stan froze at the sight of it, his eyes widening as his pulse shot through the roof._

_‘No way...They’re just...lockin’ people in with this maniac?’ Stan thought, his stomach churning at the mere thought. ‘Poor bastards…why would anyone even do somethin’ like that?’_

_His concentration was broken at the sudden sound of footsteps walking towards him. The portly announcer sauntered his way over, swinging open the flimsy metal gate with a rattle and walked out past him to hold the door. As he did, the man used his free hand and clapped it down on Stan’s shoulder. Stan raised his eyes to meet those that were watching him with an annoyed scowl, and found that they were filled with both pity and a kind of rabid excitement that gave him the willies._

_“Watch your footing, friend,” said the announcer, eyes sparkling darkly, “You came in unexpected, you see. We didn’t exactly have time to clean up after the last guy, and well…” the man paused, a small chuckle escaping him. “We don’t want you slip on a loose tooth.”_

_Stan glared at him, fists clenching tight enough to make the gauze wrapped securely around his knuckles to bite into his skin. This wasn’t right. How could people get off on this kind of thing? Did they just lock some poor sods in here when they tried to escape and watch them get ripped to shreds? On his travels, Stan had met some nasty people to be sure, but he’d never heard of something like this. This wasn’t boxing, it was torture. He wasn’t sure just how much of the implications were true, but he was starting to catch on enough and it made him sick. The thought of people begging at the gate to be set free only to be beaten to a bloody pulp made his skin crawl._

_With the most ferocious glare he could muster, Stan locked eyes with the man and placed a hand over the one on his shoulder. “I’d be more concerned about yer own health if I was you,” he said evenly, letting his own menacing grin tug up the corners of his mouth. Stan gripped the hand under his as tight as he could, digging his thumb into the spot right between the thin bones on the back of the announcers hand. He winced, eyes going wide with fright and he tried to pull away. Stan held him firmly in place, pressing down harder before leaning in close to say his piece._   
_“It ain’t nice ta poke fun at people...yer lucky I’m a nice enough fella. But some people ain’t as kind as me. Ya poke fun at the wrong person? Pal...ya might wind up losin’ more than just a few teeth.”_

_Satisfied with the rapid draining of color from the man’s face, Stan finally released his hold on his hand and shoved past him into the ring. As the chain link door rattled shut behind him, Stan took a step forward and nearly slipped on something wet but managed to catch himself in time by grabbing onto the chain link behind him. He cursed under his breath and his eyes shot downward, his veins filling up with ice and his heart rate spiking as he laid eyes on what it was._

_Blood._

_Not too much, but enough to create a small trail that started under his foot and ended right below the center of the enclosed space. Stan could see that to the right of his boot, two small white objects that floated in the red liquid. Before Stan had time to fully feel the impact of his shock, a shadow stalked towards him and he raised his eyes to meet the solid mass that made up the champ. He was a big fella; much bigger than Stan had guessed from a distance. The monster stood nearly seven feet tall, his entire frame made up of bulging veins and muscle. It was nearly uncanny when Stan realized that he looked like a human bull, even sporting a septum piercing that dangled down from his nose and rested on his still bloodied lip. The dude was far more intimidating up close, that was for sure, standing with his hands balled into tight fists at his sides. He could see that his knuckles were all split open and bruised from who knows how many rounds in the ring, dried blood covering his hands and fingers. Stan craned his head upward to meet his eyes and was nearly startled enough to stagger backwards. His pupils were blown wide open, the rest of his eyes dark and bloodshot._

_...And all too familiar in their look._

_Stan paused and focused more clearly on the look in Raymond’s eyes, but there was no denying what he saw. Suddenly it all made perfect sense. No wonder the guy who came before him fared so poorly against this musclehead; he was absolutely coked out of his fucking mind. His pupils were open as far as the human body would allow and Stan could see the rapid rate at which his chest rose and fell. He’d seen this look before in so many people; wild eyed and half crazy, their mind too far gone to focus on anything. People so fucked up on drugs that they lost control of their faculties and did things they’d never consider sober. There were plenty of jokes he’d heard here and there, but there really was some truth to the phrase “cocaine is one hell of a drug”. It took the body’s adrenaline response and kicked it up to unnatural levels. It was terrifying to say the least, because if this guy was higher than a kite, it meant that Stan was now trapped in a cage with a raging monster._

_“Shit.”_

_Raymond took a step forward, causing Stan to stagger one step back and brace himself on the metal of the cage. When the towering man above him leaned down and smiled, showing off his bloodied teeth, it sent an involuntary shiver up his spine. “So, you wanna fight me?” he asked in English in a rough voice, “What, ya lose a bet? Or did ya just not have enough to pay off your debt?”_

_Debt? What the hell was this guy on about? “No idea what yer yappin’ about, big guy,” he responded, just barely managing to keep the wavering out of his voice, “I signed up fer it. Ain’t that how everyone ends up in here?”_

_Raymond’s lips curled up into a near hellish smile before he laughed. The booming sound of his voice was sickening to listen to. “Hah! Well, that’s one way to end up in here.” Raymond said with a dark smile, “Usually, though, they get dragged in here kicking and screaming.”_

_Now, that was not something he was prepared to hear. Despite the shock clear on Stan’s face, Raymond paid him no mind at all and wiped a tear from his eye before he picked his story back up. “You should hear the excuses they give! All the begging and whining about how they can pay up, or about how they have kids waiting for them at home. Tough luck, fuckup! You shouldn’t borrow cash you can’t pay back! It’s hilarious to watch them try to get away, especially after a few blows to the head! How they stumble and stagger around! Priceless!”_

_His stomach did flips from where he stood. Stan almost couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It was almost like it was straight out of one of those crime dramas Carla used to make him watch back home, but as his eyes shifted downwards once again towards the blood that pooled around his shoe, it was all suddenly far too real for Stan to stomach. They did just bring people here to die, didn’t they? The story he’d been fed earlier about people lining up to get the prize money was just a front, wasn’t it? In a split second, everything fell into place._

_This bar was a cover, using a fake front about how this was a kind of amature fighting club. They did sign-ups, but the real reason was to cage people in here as a way of punishment. Debtors were thrown in here with this monster to clear their debt, one way or another, and the cops either didn’t care or were working with whoever ran this joint._

_Stan clenched his hands to fists at his sides hard enough to cause his nails to sink into his skin._

_“Like the last guy!” Raymond barked out between bouts of laughter, “Ya should have seen him! Some moron a little older than you, pal! He kept on crying about how he wanted to see his daughter!”_

_This guy was still going on and on about the poor people he’d murdered or beaten, and he said every word as though he was proud of it. Blood pooled in Stan’s closed palms as he grit his teeth._

_“He even tried to fight back for a little while! But man, did his tune change when I broke his ribs! You should have seen the loo-”_

_Without a second thought, Stan cocked his arm back and threw all his weight forward and listened in satisfaction as his fist connected with the center of his opponents stomach. With a gust of exhaled breath, Raymond gasped out in pain as he fell forward down to one knee and brought a large hand up to cradle his stomach. Stan’s knuckles throbbed in pain as he retracted his fist, but he couldn’t be bothered to pay it any mind, instead winding his fist into Raymond’s hair and yanking his head back painfully to force his eyes to meet his own. “Do me a favor, bud,” Stan grit out, clenching his other fist tight into a ball at his side before yanking the wild eyed man forward, “Shut the fuck up.”_

_With another swift motion, Stan brought his fist forward and threw a right hook directly into the center of his opponent’s face, listening to the satisfactory crunch that followed. The force of his hit wrenched his head back quick enough to rip out a few strands of hair. When Raymond sat up, Stan could tell that he’d managed to break his nose. Blood gushed down his face and over his snarling mouth as Raymond brought a hand up to cup over his face as he howled in agony. “You bastard!” he screeched in outrage, scrambling to his feet and charging towards Stan with one clenched fist, “I’LL KILL YOU!”_

_Stan barely had time to duck out of the way as Raymond hauled back and released a forceful punch that flew inches away from his jaw. He could feel the heat of his skin as his fist landed on the chain link fence behind him with a sharp rattle. The roar of the crowd that had subsided was now back in a cacophony of excited voices, all of the patrons now cheering and whistling in excitement as soon as punches were thrown. It made him sick. Stan brought his arms up in front of him, the backs of his knuckles facing outwards in front of him as he brought his elbows together tightly to block. He peeked through the gap that his hands, watching as Raymond righted himself and whipped around to face him. The blood that ran in rivulets over his teeth and down his chin made him look all the more wild as he hauled his whole left side back to prepare his next blow. When the swing finally came, Stan was ready, sliding his feet across the floor and to the right, dodging just in time for the hit to miss and cause Raymond to stumble forward with the momentum._

_In the time it took for Raymond to recover, Stan could see that he’d left his entire left side unguarded. That was his opening._

_‘Now!’_

_Quickly, Stan slid back forward to meet the solid form of his opponent and threw his fist outward. The solid ‘thud’ of his fist connecting with the exposed flesh of ribs ringing out as he rained down two more quick jabs was satisfying to listen to. Raymond gasped and staggered a small bit as he tried to catch his breath that came whooshing out of him with the impact of the blows. The people on the outside of the ring gasped in unison, watching in amazement as Stan took the opportunity to loop around to stand directly in front of Raymond and duck down to bring his fist upwards into his jaw and finish his volley with an uppercut._

_Stan bounced away from the wild swing that came as soon as Raymond had regained his footing, the solid pound of his footsteps on the wooden floor below rattling the linked metal of the fencing all around them. His eyes seethed with murderous intent as he charged forward, alternating haymakers from right to left and back again. Each punch was a near miss, Stan only dodging out of the way with seconds to spare. He made sure to keep a wide stance as he moved out of the way, his eyes watching the sway of his opponents body to follow his movements. Raymond wasn’t even trying in anymore, his whole body leaning into every single movement he made. The benefit was that it had made him easier to predict. But as the next swing flew past him, Stan watched in shock as the force of the impact left a sizeable dent in the metal bar that the chain link was secured to. When Raymond retracted his fist, he could see that the metal had sharply been crushed inwards on itself like it was made from aluminum and not forged steel._

_The guy might be easy to predict, but if he got hit by that? Stan shuddered to think what an impact like that would do to his skull._

_Raymond whipped his head around angrily as his dark eyes zeroed in. “Would you just hold the fuck still?!” he bellowed before unleashing the next volley of swings. Stan dodged as best he could as blow after blow came at him, just barely dancing around the edges of his reach. Stan grit his teeth when the realization came that he wasn’t gonna be able to tire Raymond out, especially since he was out of his mind on coke. There was no way he was gonna be able to keep this pace up forever, either. It had been days since he’d last eaten enough to be able to last long while doing something like this...He’d have to change tactics if he wanted to come out of this with his face intact. Raymond stomped forward and Stan felt the cold, woven metal of the fence come up against his back, causing him to freeze in place._

_“Ah, shit!” he cursed aloud as the thundering steps of his opponent began to close in. He had to move and fast, ducking down as the solid punch came into contact with the fence where his head had been moments before. Stan took the opportunity to land two solid hits to Raymond's kidneys before getting the hell out of dodge, his opponent clasping his hands together to bring them down with brute force when he’d gotten his bearings. ‘Not good,’ Stan thought to himself, ‘I’m not gonna last like this. Eventually he’ll get his hands on me, and then I’m screwed.’_

_Stan wracked his brain for anything useful, eyes darting around the confines of the cage as he searched for anything to give him an advantage. He cursed silently as he came up with nothing, dodging away from another volley of wild blows from his opponent...then it hit him._

_When he’d first entered the ring, Stan noticed that there was a chain with a padlock dangling around it’s end that looped through the bars of the cage. He hadn’t heard the snap of the lock when he entered...Stan quickly glanced towards the door, grinning when he noticed that he was proven to be correct; the chain still dangled freely, the lock unlatched and dangling from the last link of one side. ‘Bingo!’_

_Raymond had him backed into the side of the ring opposite the gate that lead outside, but instead of dodging the next blow to the side, Stan dodged under and scrambled between his legs. When he had his footing, Stan made a mad dash towards the gate, yanking the chain loose from where it sat and ducking to the left when he heard the thundering footsteps approaching behind him. Quickly, he brought a foot down hard to the side of Raymond’s knee, listening as he heard the satisfying crunch when the heel of his boot came into abrupt contact his kneecap. Raymond fell forward against the fence, yowling in agony as Stan quickly circled around behind him and flung the chain around his opponents neck. Planting his feet solidly on the ground, Stan wrapped the ends of the chain around his arms and pulled back as hard as he could. There was a sudden inhale of breath from Raymond that ended in a gurgling gasp as his hands came up to try to pull the chain away. Stan held firm, only pulling harder and harder and crossing his arms to completely cut off Raymond’s oxygen. He tried to scramble backwards by shuffling on his knees, but Stan raised one foot and brought it down solidly in the center of Raymond’s back, forcing him to lean forward into the suffocating hold of the chain that coiled tighter and tighter around his throat. Stan had him exactly where he wanted him._

_Once he realized that he had this fight in the bag, the anger from before, the rage that had caused him to throw that first punch bubbled back up to the surface tenfold. He thought back to the shock he had felt when he saw just what this guy could do; how he crushed the steel beam under his fist, how he had been wild with bloodlust and threw his whole weight into every single punch, and it made him angrier than he had ever been. How many people were forced into this cage to die? How many husbands? How many sons?_

_How many brothers?_

_Stan grit his teeth and gripped the chain in his hands with everything he was worth, his blood boiling with rage he’d never known before this very moment. “Ya think it’s funny ta beat people into the ground, eh?” Stan spat behind him, pulling back hard enough on the chain for his knuckles to go white with the force of his grip, “Ya like it when you get ta rip some poor bastard ta shreds, huh? How many lives did ya ruin?! How many people are in the ground because of you?! Huh?! WELL HOW DO YOU LIKE IT, ASSHOLE?!”_

_With a final tug, Stan watched in morbid satisfaction as Raymond’s movements slowed and slowed until finally, the strength that he’d been trying to pull the chains away waning until it had evaporated completely and his movements stopped altogether. Raymond’s limbs went limp and his head lolled forward, his whole body’s weight leaned forward into the chain. With a final growl, Stan released the ends between his hands and let his opponent fall forward and collapse to the floor with a resounding thud. For a moment, Stan stood over his opponent and watched as his chest rose and fell before leaning down and placing two fingers below his jaw. Once he’d found the jugular vein, Stan was relieved to find a pulse. He wasn’t like these people; he didn’t get off on killing people. He may have been a scrappy guy, but the thought of taking a human life was something that gave him nightmares for weeks. He wasn’t a monster. He never wanted to be._

_And if he ever made it home, he didn’t think he could look his Ma in the eyes and admit to doing something so horrible. He’d break her heart for a second time._

_With one hand, Stan grabbed the chain from the floor and grabbed Raymond under his arms and hauled him up against the fence in a sitting position. It took some effort, but finally he maneuvered against the chain link fencing and wrapped the chain around his torso before sliding the padlock shut. Didn’t need this guy coming to and attempting to tear his face off or some shit. Once he was sure that Raymond wasn’t going anywhere, Stan bent forward and braced his hands on his knees, sweat dripping from his forehead as he heaved in gulps of air. He had been right before when he assumed that he wasn’t going to be able to keep up the dodging forever, and all the exhaustion and fatigue from sleepless nights and an empty stomach hit him like a freight train. When he opened his eyes, he could see that blood was seeping into the cotton gauze wound around his hands, the white fabric getting redder with every painful throb of his knuckles. He guessed he split his skin open when he’d delivered that uppercut. However, despite the burning of his lungs and the throbbing of his hands, Stan couldn’t help but smile. As far as he was concerned, he’d put a dangerous monstrosity out of commission. He’d have to retire after Stan shattered his knee cap with that kick before the knockout. “Worth it,’” he hummed to himself._

_When he was sure that he wasn’t just going to topple over and his dizziness had passed, Stan stood up straight and met the eyes of the stunned patrons around him. All of them were watching him with wide eyes and surprised gapes that stretched their mouths open, the shock and disbelief plain on their faces. Stan dismissively passed his eyes over every single one of them, his disgust for them plain as day on his face. How many of them were in on this little game? How many of them were fully aware of what was going on? Even if they weren’t, how could they watch as people were tossed in here and left to die? He had no respect for anyone who did, and these people were getting no love from him anytime soon. With a final glare at the crowd, Stan turned away from them and stalked over to the gate and all but threw it open. The cowering form of the announcer watched him approach with horror, his hands coming together in a plea._

_This guy had to be in on it. He wanted so badly to beat this guy’s face into a bloody pulp for signing on to watch god knows how many innocent people march to their doom? But Stan was tired, and he couldn’t exactly collect his prize if he opened up on the guy who was supposed to pay him. Begrudgingly, Stan stopped a few feet away and glared down at the short, round man and tried to keep his hands from acting on their own._

_“W-well...done, sir.” The announcer stuttered nervously, “What an excellent match! I’ve never seen anyth-”_

_“Can it, shithead.” Stan snapped at him, digging out his pack of smokes from his back pocket and lighting one up before fixing the announcer with a glare. “I don’t wanna hear another fuckin’ word outta yer sleazy mouth. You and everyone else here is fucked in the head, and as soon as ya pay me what’s owed, I’m outta here. Capiche’?”_

_The announcer fell silent as soon as he caught sight of Stan’s expression, only nodding dumbly before he dug into his pocket and retrieved a folded stack of bills. As he watched him count, Stan listened as the patrons began whispering to themselves. All words of shock and disbelief from what he could tell, but he couldn’t bring himself to focus too closely on any of their words. The sooner he was out of here, the better. He couldn’t stand to have their gaze on him for another second. Once the announcer had finished counting his reward, Stan snatched it right out of his hands and turned on his heel, making towards the bar stool that still had his red jacket draped over it. Quickly he slung it over his shoulder and made for the door, but Stan turned to look around the room a final time, exhaling the smoke he held in his chest before speaking._

_“You all either need to go to church more, or ya need a doctor.” he said loud enough for everyone to hear, “Never in my life have I come across such a rotten pack a people. I’d say it was a pleasure, but man, there are just some things I can’t lie about. Maybe find a wholesome past time instead a watching people get mauled by a coked up murderer.”_

_With a final wave over his shoulder, Stan shoved the door open and stepped out into the night._

_The fresh air was nearly euphoric compared to the smell of the bar, and Stan breathed in as much as his lungs would allow. He couldn’t stomach the smell that lingered on him from the bar, and the sooner he could get it off of him the better. The cool air was a godsend to his warmed skin as well, the chill acting like an ice pack to combat the ache in his knuckles when it made contact with the bloodied gauze. Damn it felt good to be out of there. Not only had he taken out a real piece of work, he’d been paid a thousand pesos to do it._

_Right! The cash._

_Taking another long drag of his smoke, Stan reached into his pocket and snagged out the wad of bills he’d taken moments ago and counted it out. He didn’t wanna get into his car and drive off only to realize he’s been cheated, and if the folks inside were screwed up enough to watch...that...they probably weren’t above cheating people. Once he was satisfied it was all there, Stan shoved the cash back into his pocket and exchanged them for his car keys. He tucked his jacket up under his arm and headed back towards the parking lot, all too eager to make tracks out of this backwater town._

_As he approached his car, he could feel the spring in his step. He hadn’t held onto this much cash in a long while, and he looked forward to getting a real dinner in him as soon as he could. Hell, maybe he’d splurge a little and grab a new outfit while he could. His socks were on their last legs, and if he woke up with another blister on his toes from his boots he was going to break something. The possibilities gave him a boost of positivity that he didn’t even know he needed, but it was welcome regardless and soon he found himself humming. Maybe this was a sign. Maybe things were gonna start going his way for once!_

_Just before he could slide his keys into the lock of his driver side door, Stan felt a faint pressure press against the back of his skull, freezing when he heard the cocking of a hammer that seemed so loud it split the night._

_"Turn around,” ordered a smooth voice, “Slowly.”_

_Maybe not, it seemed._

____________________________________________________________________________

     He isn’t even sure of what time it is, but he knows for a fact that the light is suddenly too bright. Stan groans and squints against the offending sun. Did Ford forget to close the curtains again? When he tries to bring his hand up to shield his eyes from the glare, he finds that not only can he not move, but that something rough and pokey is wrapped tightly around his wrists.

     Wait...what? For a moment, he thinks he’s still dreaming and the sting is the phantom sensation of the cotton gauze around his hands...but cotton gauze doesn’t sting like a fistfull of needles. No, this feels like...like rope...

     In a moment of panic, he tries to yank his hands free from whatever is holding them and hisses in pain when he feels the binds tighten enough to cut into his flesh, the painful fibers stabbing every-which-way into the sensitive skin of his inner wrist. With a gasp, Stan’s eyes shoot open and instantly he finds himself squinting them shut again. Holy hell his head hurts to high heaven. He feels like he was hit by a ton of bricks right across the back of his head. What the hell happened? Still half-blinded by the sunlight filtering in through a window nearby, somewhere higher up he thinks, Stan opens his eyes slowly and has a near heart attack when he finds himself in a room he’s never seen before.

     “What the…?”

     The room looks almost like a prison cell, cramped and devoid of any look into the outside world besides a small, squashed rectangular window with a shattered glass pane towards the ceiling . The walls are all grey, only made up of flaking concrete from floor to ceiling and barren of any sort of wallpaper or paint. Up on the ceiling is a fluorescent light that hums in a low pitch with electricity, the chain dangling with the draft that seeps in from the broken window and clinking against itself. There were two chairs in the room; both collapsable and propped up against a heavy metal door on the wall opposite him, but other than that, the room was devoid of any other objects.

     It reminded him of Colombia all over again.

     Stan gave a second yank of his arms to test his bindings, finding that he’s been tied up to a chair. He tries to move his legs to see if he can try to stand, but stops when he feels the painful prickling of the rough hemp rope as digs into his calves through his jeans. “Damn.” He curses aloud. When he tries to stand up again, this time with more force, he hears the metal bottom of the chair clank against something in protest. Looking down between his knees, he can see two things of note. Both of them equally alarming.

     One being that not only was the chair affixed to the floor by a metal plate that had been welded to the bottom rungs. The other was a bit more concerning, because on the floor surrounding the chair, there were dark splotches of dark reddish-brown liquid that formed quite a stain that had seemingly seeped directly into the concrete. His blood runs cold as the beating of his heart rises to a thunderous rhythm.

     “Dammit,” Stan gasps aloud, “That’s no good. Not at all...”

     Stan tries to stand again, using his full weight to attempt to force the weld that holds the legs of the chair to snap away, but in an instant he comes crashing down to his forced position once more. He tries to forcefully tug his hands free of their bindings again, but the only progress he makes is breaking the skin on his wrists, causing blood to seep out of newly opened gashes that sting to high heaven. After a few more attempts, he can feel his strength start to fade away when the pounding in his head reaches new levels of agonizing pain and he finally goes limp in his seat. Dark spots swim across his vision while he breathes rapidly, wincing at the ache in his wrists and the pounding in his skull. “Alright,” he huffs after a moment, his rough voice bouncing off the barren walls, “Calm down. Yer still breathin’, that’s gotta count fer somethin’.”

     He supposed that was true enough, but from what he could tell from the state of the room and the reddish brown stains beneath his feet, he wasn’t gonna be breathing for long if he didn’t figure out a way out of this mess. It didn’t help that he couldn’t even remember how he got here, wherever here was, or even what happened to land him in what was probably a makeshift torture chamber... Jeez, things were a lot bleaker than he thought, huh? Regardless, Stan closed his eyes and forced himself to take a deep breath. He wasn’t going to have a prayer if he was in a blind panic. Stan took deep breaths in and out as calmly as he could, letting the tension filter out of him as much as he could muster and turned his thoughts back. He had to remember what happened to land him here.

     He remembered the market first; a sea of people with unfamiliar faces that all milled about under the hot sun. He remembered walking up and down the market square, watching as the locals went about with their day-to-day business...He remembered he wasn’t alone. Ford was with him. They were looking for supplies while they had the chance to make port before setting off again. Stan remembered planning on...on leaving. He remembered that they split up. Stan had taken half the list with him and had left Ford with the other half. He remembered that he’d hoped to finish his part in time to drop off his half of the goods and catch a bus. He remembered that he wanted to get away before Ford realized that he was more trouble that he was worth.

     He remembered not wanting to go…

     Stan shook his head, forcing that thought back into his subconscious and trying to work his way past the ache that it had planted in his chest. He could worry about that later. For now, he had to focus on making sure that later actually happened. Stan took another deep breath in, exhaling slowly before delving into his memories once more.

     He had finished his half of the list and was on his way back to the Stan O’ War II when he’d run into...into trouble. A man. He had been followed. He remembers trying to lose his pursuer, winding his way through the back alleys and narrow streets of the residential district of the city before getting cornered in an alleyway. He remembered that the guy hadn’t been alone...he’d knocked out one guy before his head started to ache. Aftershocks of a Memory Event. Then...one of the guys had blindsided him with a two-by-four across the back of his head, knocking him unconscious. No wonder his head hurt like all hell.

     Before going under, Stan remembers that the leader had said a name...He wasn’t sure what it was, but he had to try to remember…It started with an ‘E’...

     He wasn’t going to have time to think on it. With a start, Stan quieted his breath when he heard something from beyond the door on the other side of the room. Voices. Three of them. Two voices were ones he recognized from earlier in the alley. The other voice, however, didn’t immediately ring any bells. One thing was for sure; they were getting closer.

     Fast.

     “Aw, fuck,” Stan whispered as the panic rises up into his chest. He still didn’t know where he was, but if the bloodstains on the floor and the bindings on his wrists were anything to go by, he was absolutely certain that the voices that approached belonged to people who did not wish him well. Stan struggled to force his hands against the painful bite of the rope around his wrists, cursing as he could feel them tighten even more and digging into the bloody welts that had already formed. The sound of footsteps heading his way only doubled his efforts despite the pain as he tried to bring his hands closer together so he could remember how to dislocate his thumb. He knew that the trick worked well enough for handcuffs, but he had no idea how well it’d work on rope. He didn’t exactly have time to care. He pulled and strained against the rope, forcing his hands closer and closer together. Almost there...

     Just as he brought his hands together behind his back, Stan could hear the footsteps stop right outside of the door. His eyes shot forward and his heart leapt up into his throat as he saw the knob turn, the metal door swinging open with a horrible, grinding creek.

     His guess had been right. Three men waited on the other side; two guys were ones Stan recognized from earlier in the alleyway, one of them sporting quite the shiner from where Stan had sucker-punched him. He at least had to grin at that. The other one Stan remembered as being the same guy who’d taken the wooden plank against the back of his skull. Both of them followed in front of another figure who came in behind them, the two men standing on either side of the door as the third figure approached slowly. Though his face was shadowed by a white trilby hat, Stan could see he was an older guy, a bit on the hefty side and dressed up in a fine white pinstripe suit. Though he couldn’t notice any recognizable limp, the guy walked with a black wooden cane underneath his hand. His polished shoes clacked against the floor as he walked, but his face still remained obscured by shadow even though he stopped to stand directly under the fluorescent light overhead. Stan glared at him despite the throbbing in his temples. This must have been the voice he couldn’t recognize, and judging by the way he dressed, he was probably more important that Stan had first guessed. In a place as ‘cozy’ as this, that meant anything but good news.

      Stan put on a brave face despite the pounding in his chest. If he showed that he was the least bit afraid it could spell disaster, so instead he plastered on the cockiest grin he could manage. “Wow,” he chuckled as he looked back and forth between the guys beside the door, “Didn’t know you two bums had friends who were such snappy dressers. Didn’t know this was a formal occasion. Ya didn’t even give me time ta slap on my Sunday best.”

     An amused chuckle from the man in the suit caused Stan to snap his gaze back towards the man in the center of the room, “My my,” he hummed as he brought a hand up to remove his hat. “Always the joker. Even after nearly forty years your unique sense of humor still holds true.”

     He knew that voice. The ice in his veins snaked its way down to his gut and froze his stomach solid. Stan’s mouth fell open as his eyes widened in horrified shock. There was no way.

     But sure enough, as the man in front of him removed his hat, Stan was face to face with a man he’d all but forgotten about. Someone he’d hoped he’d put long behind him. He remembered the flash images that had brought him to his knees earlier that day on the docks, memories of a lifetime he’d balled up and thrown away, and the face that had shaken him to his very core was now standing directly in front of him.

     “Matias?” he asked in disbelief, the name leaving a sour taste on his tongue, “Matias Esquela? That really you?”

     Though time had aged him, Stan was absolutely sure that this man was indeed his former boss. A man that had forced him into his employ a mere three years before that fateful day in Gravity Falls. He seemed a bit heftier than he remembered, but his face and his eyes and his voice were all the same, if aged with time. Matias smiled in amusement at Stan’s shocked expression. “The one and only, compadre’.” He affirmed in that warm, sickly voice.

     Stan stared for a split second longer before he smirked. He remembered him, alright. He remembered as Matias had come to him that night he’d beaten his goon to a bloody pulp in that bar. He remembered being dragged to kneel at his feet, told to either join him or die. How a man with his fighting skill and resourcefulness was an asset that he couldn’t afford to let slip through his fingers. Stan had worked for this guy, doing his dirty deeds for so long that he begun to get used to the cruelties he had a hand in every day...but he remembered the night he left. Stan had been on a job with two others to collect ‘insurance’ from a local grocer. Originally, he’d gone with as extra muscle, but when he’d gone to get something from the truck all hell had broken loose. His coworkers had beheaded a man in his own home for not having the money that he’d owed to Matias and his business. Stan had turned tail that same night, running as far as he could before spilling his guts to the police two towns over.

     Shit. Shit shit shit.

     Stan realized the full weight of what was happening in an instant; he was here in this room because he deserted all those years ago. Because he’d squealed. He’d told the police everything and had gotten out of dodge soon after...He was stupid to think that Esquela had forgotten.

     Stan leaned back in his chair, his face trained into a bored expression despite the hammering of his heart. He was screwed, there was no denying that fact. He wasn’t gonna leave this room, so nonchalantly he gave his former boss a once over. Might as well make it worth his while. “Ya put on weight.” he said, “Dippin’ into the sweets, huh?”

     The two men by the door exchanged shocked looks before Matias broke the silence with a bemused chortle. “Still as crass as ever as well.” He remarked. “You really haven’t changed.”

     Stan smirked humorlessly, his eyes narrowed and fixed on his former boss in a hateful glare. “Hey, I just call ‘em like I see ‘em.” he remarked off-handedly. “Quite the warm welcome, pal. What, didja miss me that much?”

     “In a manner of speaking, I suppose I did, Mr. Alcatraz,” Matias hummed back calmly, walking towards the side of the room and propping his cane against the wall, hanging his hat from the bend at the top. “Especially since we never got a chance to properly say goodbye.”

     There it was. He knew that the old bastard didn’t forget. Stan closed his jaw into a harsh line, inhaling and exhaling to calm his nerves. “Yeah,” Stan said with a roll of his eyes, “I bet you were real heartbroken. As a matter a’ fact, so was Mrs. Rosa. Ya know...after ya had her husband’s head cut off.”

     Matias walked back to the center of the room, crossing his arms behind his back and fixing Stan with a cold glare. “Sacrifices must be made in this line of work,” he hummed dismissively. It caused Stan’s blood to boil. “What broke my heart more was the fact that you fled and went so far as to inform the police about that little...incident. I thought you could be trusted, Andrew. It seemed that I was mistaken.”

     “Trusted?” Stan growled in outrage, leaning forward on his chair far enough to tug against his bindings, ignoring the bite of the rough material against the welts on his skin “Ya wanna talk about trust? That’s real rich comin’ from a guy like you. You and yer boys here ain’t nothin’ but sick, twisted killers, pal! And here I’d hoped that the cops had put ya down like the mutt you are. Ya spen years extortin’ the good people of this town, and killin’ off anyone who tried to get the hell outta dodge. You ain’t deservin’ a no one’s trust, you greasy, two faced murderer!”

     One of the men launched forward from his position leaning on the wall, hands balled into fists as he stalked towards Stan with rage in his eyes. “You son of a-”

     “Ah ah ah,” With one outstretched hand, Matias stopped him dead in his tracks, waving him back to his spot. “Now now,” he chided, “No need to get upset. There are ways to work matters like this out...amicably.”

     The angry man looked between Stan, back to his boss and then back again before huffing out a defeated sigh and returned to his post. Matias exhaled a slow, steady breath as he crossed his arms behind his back again.

     “As I recall,” he began, “You didn’t seem to have had a problem when you were on the payroll. Why the sudden crisis of conscience?”

     Stan smirked and returned to his lax position in his seat. “Simple,” he said with a shrug, “The more I saw how yer empire did it’s business, the better description I could give to the police. I was lyin’ to you from the get-go pal. Honestly, one of my finer cons.” Stan smirked then, his brow quirking up in a mocking fashion.

     “And fer the record, it doesn’t exactly count as ‘voluntary’ when ya put a gun to a guy’s temple. Kinda stackin’ the odds against him, ya know? And here I was, ready ta just mind my own business. But _you_ roped me into it. Ain't there a sayin' about how hubris can be yer downfall?"”

     There was a silence that stretched on between them, both men regarding one another for what seemed like an eternity. Stan continued to grin at him, but his eyes were narrowed in a hate filled glare. His former boss regarded him with an almost bored look until he broke the silence with a sigh, his face frozen in a stern mask. “You disappoint me, Andrew.” he said gravely, “I will admit that the conditions of your recruitment were...unfavorable. However, I gave you a place to rest your head. I gave you money enough to live and kept you fed. And what thanks do I get? You betray my trust, put my operations on standby, and flee without so much as a goodbye. I would have made this quick if you had said that you were regretful, but to know that you were planning to betray me from the beginning…”

     With a snap of his fingers, the two men by the door exchanged amused glances, stalking forward to stand at either side of their boss. A wicked grin spread across their faces as they regarded Stan with predatory delight.

     “I can’t show you any mercy, I’m afraid.”

     With that, Matias turned away from Stan and walked over to the wall to retrieve his hat and cane. “You bring me much sadness, old friend. But I suppose that I can look forward to parading your broken corpse through the streets. After your little coup, the people started to fight back more. But now...you’ll finally be setting a good example for them.”

     Stan grit his teeth. He thought as much. He always figured that he’d go out like this; pissing off the wrong people and getting snuffed out for it when all he tried to do was make things right. Honestly, he was surprised it didn’t happen sooner.

     As the men approached his bound form, Stan thought of the kids...he thought of Mabel and her sunny smile, how she could make him laugh no matter what. She’d be heartbroken when he wasn’t there next summer to see her. And Dipper...what would he think? Would he cry? Would he try to track him down after he was gone? Stan bit back the sting that the thought brought to his eyes, shoving down his grief. Those kids were strong. They were the toughest thirteen year olds he’d ever had the fortune to know, and he knew they were destined for great things. At least they would have one Grunkle left…

     That’s right...Ford had been with him. He had asked him to sail around the world, to live out their childhood dream. Stan smirked bitterly. He was so stupid for trying to leave. For thinking that it was better to leave him behind...but at least Ford wouldn’t be around to see him like this. That was a blessing in and of itself. He couldn’t bear to think about what his brother would have to say if he found him all broken and bloodied and bruised. Moreover, these guys were ruthless killers. If Ford tried to fight back, like he knew he would, he’d wind up getting himself killed or worse. Stan smiled to himself, happy that he decided to get out of dodge when he did. In the end, it meant that the worst thing that happened was that he’d go out alone. ‘That’s twice now that I’ll have saved that dork from certain doom.’ he thought, chuckling to himself.

     “Something funny?” asked Matias over his shoulder, breaking through Stan’s thoughts.

     He couldn’t help but smirk to himself before looking up past the guards at the figure that lingered in the doorway. “Yeah, actually.” Stan said with a wicked edge in his voice, “I always figured that you’d be the one ta get sent down ta hell first. Ah well, don’t worry. I’ll save a spot fer ya.” he promised with a dark smile.

     The two men on either side of him closed in, blocking his former boss from view, but he heard Matias say one final thing before the metal door closed shut.

     “My friend, I fear that you may be waiting for a long time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to ArtsyMeeshee and dilemmemma for taking the time to proof read for me! I really couldn't have made this next chapter possible without not only your keen eyes, but your constant care and support. <3

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted to my tumblr, but I wanted to actually post it somewhere where it looked neater instead of stretching people's dashes to high heaven.
> 
> Anywhoo, if you like it, keep on the lookout for updates


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